The Terror That Came to Gotham
by RapidEyeMovement
Summary: The cast and crew of horror film remake "The Terror" are being killed off by someone copying the movie's villain, Clayface, prompting Batman to investigate. Meanwhile, Jonathan Crane has escaped and is creating terror of his own.
1. Dramatis Personae

**NOTE:** This story is a follow-on from my previous Bat-fic "Shiver". It is NOT a sequel, nor is it necessary to read "Shiver" first and its events do not affect this plot, although there may be references to it throughout. All that is required to know about the previous story is that it introduced Victor Fries (Mr. Freeze), Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter) and Detective Lt. Harvey Bullock to the Nolanverse.

* * *

**THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM**

Act I – "Dramatis Personae"

–_Welcome back to _Gotham Tonight_. I'm your host, Mike Engel. Recapping our top story: Police are still on the search for escaped homicidal schizophrenic Jervis Tetch who escaped from Arkham Asylum earlier this week. Tetch was sent to Arkham just over a month ago for murdering and kidnapping several of his Wayne Enterprises co-workers. The details surrounding this case are limited, but some reports have indicated that Tetch may have used sophisticated Wayne Tech equipment to aid in his crimes. Tetch is currently suspected to be involved in the recent series of kidnappings involving young girls and is believed to be operating with accomplices. We'll have more on this story later, as well as the ongoing manhunt for the vigilante Batman, but now over to Lydia Filangeri with the entertainment news. Lydia?_

–_Thanks, Mike. Gotham's film buffs were recently overjoyed with the news that the remake of the 1950s cult horror classic _The Terror_ was being filmed right here in our fair city. But getting the camera rolling has proven difficult. I've got the film's writer, director and _star_, Preston Payne, here to tell us why. Hi, Preston, and thanks for joining us._

–_Pleasure to be here, Lydia._

–_First off, tell us a little about the plot of the original movie._

–_Well the original is very special to me. When I first saw it on home video in the 80s I decided right then that I wanted to get into filmmaking._

–_Wow, so this is kind of a personal project for you?_

–_Very much so, Lydia. But the basic plot is that there's these scientists – two guys and a girl – and there's a love triangle situation. But then one of them gets exposed to this radioactive protoplasm that turns him into a shape-shifting monster…_

–_This would be the creature the fans have dubbed "Clayface"?_

–_Yeah, yeah. He's never referred to as such in the script, but that's what the fans – myself included – have come to call him. Anyway, Clayface, driven by his love for the female scientist, goes on a bit of a killing spree…_

–_But it's not just a simple, dumb monster movie, right?_

–_Oh no, no. There's a really deep, emotional story there. Clayface is acting out of love and jealousy; he sees himself being replaced, plus his deformity… It's very deep. I think my script captures the essence of the first._

–_I understand you have the star of the original film too? Basil Karlo?_

–_Yes, and that was a real blessing, let me tell you. I'm such a huge fan of his, and I'm playing his role – Clayface – in our version. I just contacted him, asked if he wanted to be involved in the remake and he was happy to come on board. He's helped me and Ethan a lot with the script and he has a small cameo too…_

–"_Ethan" being Ethan Bennett, with whom you've worked before?_

–_Yes, yes. Ethan and I write the screenplays for all my movies. He's a good friend._

–_Tell us about some of the difficulties you've had in getting the film off the ground. I understand you've been pitching it for some years now?_

–_[Sighs.] Yeah. Like I said; it's a very personal thing… No studio would ever finance it, even in this remake-heavy culture, so I'm producing it independently. With my own money and some help of course._

–_You were lucky enough that rising starlet Julie Madison joined the cast and, as those of us who read the gossip magazines know, she's not shy of a penny, and not afraid to show it off either._

–_[Laughs.] Yeah, well, despite what the papers say, Julie is actually a fantastic actress; she wasn't just hired because of the money she brought to it. We're also being financed by a local businessman here in Gotham: Roland Daggett._

–_CEO of pharmaceutical company Daggett Industries._

–_Right. He's a little…presumptuous when it comes to his role in the making of the film…_

–_What do you mean?_

–_Well I don't want to… Let's just say we have a lot of creative differences and leave it at that._

–_Fair enough. Tell us about the rest of the cast. I understand you also have action movie star Matt Hagen as well as Oscar nominee Sondra Fuller?_

The interview continued but a guard switched off the rec-room television set, much to Crane's annoyance.

"I was watching that," he informed the guard.

"Tough," was the reply. "Time for your appointment, Crane."

Crane sighed as his thin frame, contained in a straightjacket, was hauled to his feet. "I used to be the one who gave the appointments out around here," he said, almost to himself.

"Don't remind me," said the guard. He marched Crane into the office of Dr. Edward Burton, the head psychiatrist, a position formerly held by Crane himself.

Dr. Burton smiled warmly as the guard fastened Crane into the bolted-down steel chair across the desk. When the guard left, the two men simply stared at one another for a moment.

"So," said Burton. "Tell me about your mother."

Crane could not help laughing. "Good one, Edward. You learn that at Brown?"

"Psychiatry for Dummies," said Burton. Both men smiled and for a moment it was easy to think of themselves as colleagues rather than as doctor and patient.

"We didn't know each other very long," said Burton, "but I was already familiar with your work when I was assigned here. Your ideas on the criminal mind were fascinating, Jonathan…"

"Are you here to analyse me, Edward, or are you just going to praise me?" said Crane. He somehow made the question sound threatening with his quiet, needling voice. "Either suits me." He shrugged with some difficulty in his restraints.

Burton leaned back in his chair and discarded his patronising tone and demeanour. "Your ideas were fascinating… but limited. You seemed to think fear was the overriding emotion behind all psychological behaviours."

"You disagree, yet even now, Doctor, you're using fear to try and provoke me into discussion."

Burton grinned smugly. "Actually, _Doctor_, I'm using professional pride to try and provoke you."

Crane's grin was much colder. "Pride is just the fear of becoming less than perfect in your own eyes. Everything comes back to fear."

"What makes you think that, Jonathan?"

Crane was well aware of the technique Burton was using – making Crane think he was leading the conversation – but he played along.

"Alright, Edward… You asked about my mother… I'll tell you about her… But first, my father…

"He was a security guard for a shopping mall. Was full of himself; thought he was John Wayne in some brightly-lit Wild West frontier. He always used to say: 'An honest man has nothing to fear.' So arrogant, so deluded…

"Once, he was walking me home from school – I was about nine or ten – when a dog leapt out the bushes. It wasn't wild or anything, just a big, dumb animal. I screamed like a girl and fell to the ground, only to look up and see my father petting the beast and laughing at me. He made me feel ashamed to feel fear. He never showed the slightest trace of it, and I wanted to change that…

"My mother suffered from osteoporosis – a weakness in bone mineral density – I'm sure you know of it. She was very frail and my father cared for her very much. I sometimes think about the romanticism of their relationship: Someone so strong loving someone so weak. She was _his_ only weakness…

"One afternoon, just before my father got back from work, I pushed my mother down the stairs. My father came home and found her lying dead in the hallway. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. It was the first time I had ever seen him _afraid_.

"I knew then that the only way to be truly fearless was to become more terrifying than that which haunts you." Crane's piercing grey eyes were aimed right at Burton. "Now do you see, Edward?"

Burton leaned forward slowly and tried not to tremble at this chilling revelation. "Jonathan, are you honestly saying that you killed your own mother? As a child? That's quite a confession."

"I killed that dog too, but I guess that's kind of an anti-climax now," said Crane flippantly.

Burton made a note to check for information on Crane's mother later and rubbed his forehead in exasperation at this new and radical knowledge.

"Uh, Jonathan, I hate to sound like a first-year psych student, but your feelings for your father have clearly clouded your judgement. In a very extreme manner…"

"But I'm right, Edward," said Crane, his voice steady with earnest confidence. "Fear can be used as a wonderful tool, and it is so very, very complex and captivating. For example: You were so enthralled in the chilling tale I told that you failed to notice me free myself from my straightjacket and chair restraints – something I learned from an old patient."

Burton suddenly became aware that Crane was sitting with his hands free and steepled in front of himself. His mind started to race: How long had Crane been free? Could he alert the guards in time? Could he talk Crane down?

"See, Edward?" said Crane, rising slowly from the chair. "Now you're experiencing dread and panic, and you are paralysed with the fear…" He approached Burton with deliberate pace.

"Jonathan… Please, just sit back down and we can–"

"I'm sorry, Edward," said Crane. "Your time is up…"

* * *

"Preston! Get yourself in here, my boy," Roland Daggett waved the young filmmaker into his office and closed the door behind him. "Have a seat. Cigar?" Daggett offered as he puffed on one himself.

"Uh, no thank you," said Preston. Both men sat across from one another.

"How did that TV thing go?" asked Daggett.

"What? Oh that. Yeah, pretty good…" Preston scratched at his hair, which had been neatly combed for the interview. He was not usually so well-groomed on a hectic film set.

"You mention me?" Daggett wiggled the cigar between his chubby fingers. "Name-drop the company?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so," said Preston.

"Good! Good! Publicity, Preston my boy, that's what it's all about! Getting your name out there."

"I presume you didn't just ask me here to discuss the interview?" said Preston. He was clearly impatient.

"Cut to the chase, eh? It's publicity I wanted to talk to you about, Preston." Daggett swivelled to gesture emphatically towards the window. "We've got to get people talking about the movie."

"People _are_ talking about the movie, Mr. Daggett," said Preston defensively.

Daggett snorted. "Yeah; film weirdoes and Internet losers. We wanna reach a wider audience, Preston! Some normal, decent folks who like a bit of sex and violence in their movies."

Preston cringed. "_The Terror_ isn't about sex and violence…"

"Sure it is. Or it will be after we've made a few changes…"

"We?"

Daggett ignored this interrogative. "More publicity means more audience which means more money. You wanna make a bit of cash, don't ya?"

Preston simply held his head, exasperated. "It's not about the money either…"

"Oh grow up, Preston," said Daggett. He rose from his chair and paced to the window. "Film isn't an art, despite what you and your stoner college pals say. Film is a business. And I understand business."

"We're not changing the film," said Preston firmly.

"You're gonna have to. 'Cause it's _my_ money that's going into this and there's nothing you can do about that." With that, Daggett turned to stare triumphantly out the window.

He didn't see Preston remove a small, sharp object from within his sleeve.

"You're right, Mr. Daggett," said Preston. "I overreacted. I'm sorry."

"I knew you'd see it my way, Payne," Daggett said over his shoulder.

Preston got up and approached Daggett. "I suppose we could work in a few more violent scenes."

"Now you're talking!" said Daggett, turning to face Preston. "What d'you have in mind?"

"Something like this." Preston's hand lashed out towards Daggett's large body. Daggett's eyes widened at the sudden shock and he looked down to see a blade, clutched in Preston's hand, sticking out of him.

"B-Blood…" he whispered before finally going silent.

Preston sneered. "Just giving the people what they want."

* * *

An abandoned amusement park. Batman could scarcely believe the audacity. He had seen criminals go to ground in warehouses, the homes of family members, factories, cheap hotels and various derelict buildings, but to hide somewhere so garish, so colourful, seemed perverse and oddly disrespectful.

But it fitted Jervis Tetch perfectly. His childish and delusional mind would think it the ideal place to lie low. It almost reflected his mental state: something once bright and cheery now corrupted and twisted. It could almost be humorous were it not for Tetch's purposes.

Batman pulled up in the Bat-pod and left the noisy vehicle outside the perimeter fence. He would approach with caution; Tetch was not to be underestimated, even without his mind-controlling neural amplifier. Batman started to head straight for the revolving tea cups ride. Given Tetch's obsession with Lewis Carroll stories, it seemed the obvious choice.

Tetch had escaped from Arkham earlier this week with the assistance of his cellmate Edgar Humphries. Humphries had been convicted for murder shortly before Tetch a month ago and had been found to be a mildly autistic savant. With his technical genius and Tetch's neurological expertise, they constructed some kind of sleep-inducing device out of television parts and other broken machines and used it to subdue the guards.

Before their escape, Batman had been pleased to hear that Tetch and Humphries were getting along so well; it had perhaps indicated a return to normality for both men. Indeed, their collaboration in their breakout spoke well of their ability to work with others. Yet they were still committing terrible wrongs.

Several young, blonde girls from the area had been abducted from their homes. From descriptions, it sounded like Tetch, aided by twin brothers Donny and Denny Terwilliger, who had also escaped from Arkham along with Tetch and Humphries.

Denny and Donny were small-time crooks, but had grown psychologically dependant on each other. They became physically distressed when separated. They were also highly susceptible to negative influence; no doubt how Tetch had so easily recruited them.

Batman was approaching the tea cup ride and could see several figures standing around it, when he was distracted by the faint sound of sobbing. In the faint glow given off by the distant city, he could make out a large, hulking figure sitting on a broken down wall.

"Edgar?" Batman whispered. The rotund man looked up and smiled at seeing Batman.

"I… I couldn't fix it," Edgar burbled. "I couldn't fix his magic hat…" In his hands he held up broken bits of metal. It was the remains of Tetch's neural amplifier that Batman himself had destroyed. This explained a recent break-in at police headquarters where nothing had apparently been stolen.

Batman reminded himself that Humphries needed a soft approach. He was not an evil man. Batman took the broken amplifier from Humphries and made a note to collect it later and make sure it was properly destroyed. "That's alright, Edgar," he said. "He's a bad man."

"Mm-hmm," Edgar moaned in agreement. "He made those girls sad. They don't want to play… They just want to go home… So do I…"

"It's okay, Edgar. The police are on their way. Just sit tight." With that, he continued towards Tetch.

As Batman neared the carnival ride, he could hear Tetch's insane ramblings.

"Take some tea," he was saying. "You can't take any less, but you can always have more!"

Batman could now see Tetch, dressed as the traditional John Tenniel illustration of Carroll's Mad Hatter, sitting in the centre. All four of the missing girls were sat around him, looking terrified and all clothed in identical blue dresses. The Terwilliger brothers stood on either side, facing inward, and were apparently dressed as Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, in accordance with Tetch's delusions.

"One of you must be Alice," said Tetch. "But, contrariwise, not all of you are Alice. So I need to see which is what and what is which and dispense with the rest, like yesterday's jam. Or today's jam tomorrow."

"This ends _now_!" Batman shouted, diving from the shadows. He needed to lure Tetch away from the girls; he couldn't risk hurting them and had no time to wait for Gordon's backup. He used smoke-bombs to distract and momentarily subdue the brothers as he went for Tetch.

But Tetch had picked up one of the girls and held a revolver to her head. Batman stopped in his tracks.

"Put the gun down, Jervis," he warned Tetch. "You don't want to hurt her."

"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently?" Tetch babbled, his eyes wild and manic. He was slowly backing away as the girl wept.

Batman could see no way to incapacitate Tetch without risking the girl's safety. Even his inaction was no guarantee that Tetch wouldn't simply pull the trigger on a whim.

"You know," said Tetch, gravely, "it's one of the most serious things that can possibly happen to one in a battle – to get one's head cut off… Tweedle-dee! Tweedle-dum! Attack the Jabberwock!"

Denny and Donny had recovered enough to come at him with machetes. Batman defended himself with his wrist-fins on his armour, which were designed specifically for blocking bladed weaponry.

Tetch ran off carrying the little girl and shouting "Off with his head!"

Batman had no time to be light on the well-built but slow-moving brothers. He kicked Donny in the solar plexus, sending him backwards onto his back. Batman then wheeled round and grabbed Denny's arm as he made to strike. Twisting the wrist, he disarmed the thug and knocked him unconscious with a controlled punch.

Turning, Batman expected to fend off an attack from Donny. Instead, the other Terwilliger was kneeling and looking towards his brother.

"Denny?" he said, his face blank and voice expressionless. "What now? What do we do know?"

Like their psychiatric evaluations had stated; neither brother was capable of action without the other. Nevertheless, Batman could not take the risk, and he also knocked out Donny.

At the sound of whimpering, he turned to see the other three girls cowering from him. For a split-second, he felt a great sadness at seeing fear in the eyes of children. But the life of the other girl depended on him; he had no time to waste. He ran towards the Hall of Mirrors; where Tetch had headed.

Once inside the series of darkened corridors, Batman could hear Tetch rambling on again.

"'Twas brillig and the slithy tothes did gyre and gimble in the wabe… All mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe…"

Batman silently crept through the reflective surfaces, trying to discern the source of Tetch's voice. Suddenly, he saw the back of Tetch's head and he lunged for him.

Only to fiercely crack a mirror. Stupid mistake. His mind was clouded; adrenaline still running high from the fight with the twins. He calmed his breathing.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son," Tetch continued. "The jaws that bite…" his voice was nearer now. "The claws that snatch…"

Batman entered a larger chamber and the fourth little girl sat, alone, crying. Obviously a trap.

Tetch leaned out from behind a mirror, unseen by his prey, and aimed his gun. "Beware the Jubjub bird," he quietly recited. "And shun the frumious…" he pulled back the hammer, "Bandersnatch!" He fired.

He hit only glass. Before Tetch could reflect on this outcome, Batman struck him unconscious from behind. He had used Tetch's own trick against him; made him attack a mirror.

"Back to Wonderland with you," said Batman.

* * *

"Found Tetch and the Terwilliger brothers all tied up for us, Lieutenant," reported a patrolman. "Humphries and the girls were just sitting there."

Bullock was lighting himself a cigarette. He had lost count of how many packs he went through in a day since he had come to Gotham. "Poor kids… Get a'hold of their parents as soon as you get back. Go on without me; I gotta, ah… take a walk."

The patrolman nodded and left. Bullock sighed and pushed his hat back to rub his forehead.

"You never get used to it," said Batman from the shadows.

Bullock nearly jumped. "Shoulda figured you'd be the carnival type: ghost trains, spook houses, freak shows…"

"Where's Gordon?" the Dark Knight simply asked.

"Back at H.Q.," replied Bullock. "Your old pal Doctor Crane escaped earlier tonight…"

"I know. He took Arkham's chief psychiatrist Dr. Edward Burton hostage. Used Burton's car to escape. The car was found an hour ago, abandoned near the city limits. The only trace of Crane was an old straightjacket and Dr. Burton's strangled corpse."

Bullock shook his head. "Well, you're one up on me. I've just been chasing a crazy paedophile…"

"There's no evidence Tetch sexual molested the girls," said Batman, almost in defence. "He's delusional and schizophrenic, but essentially childish and immature. Although he is prone to violent tendencies…"

"Alright, alright…" Bullock waved his hand. "Show-off."

"I'd recommend keeping Tetch and Humphries in separate cells," said Batman.

"Oh, ya think?" Bullock sarcastically quipped. "They should both be kept in solitary, ya ask me."

"Humphries has no desire to escape. He was goaded into it by Tetch. His intelligence and skill was taken advantage of. His mind should be nurtured, not corrupted. The Terwilliger brothers are also easily influenced, although more prone to criminal activities…"

"Yeah, well, I don't care what's wrong with any of 'em, so long as they're off the streets and those little girls are safe… Gonna be having nightmares for years…"

"That's why we need to bring Crane in," said Batman. "He's dangerous; there's no telling what he'll do now he's out."

"I read the file on him. Dresses like a scarecrow, likes scaring people… Doesn't seem so tough…"

"You didn't think Fries or Tetch were tough."

"Yeah, and one of them's dead and the other's locked up, so I can't have been that wrong. Well, Tetch did escape, but still…"

"Crane's obsessed with fear; its effects, its uses…" said Batman. "He employs a powerful and toxic hallucinogen on people as part of his experiments, to induce fear. Luckily the blue flower used in its composition is… rare."

"They still haven't accounted for all his supply of the stuff from when he was running that drug ring a few months back," said Bullock. "Or the money he made from it."

"Precisely why he needs to be brought in, and fast," said Batman. "He'll most likely start up his experiments again, only on civilians this time instead of patients and drug addicts."

"I hear it's strong stuff," said Bullock. "That kid on the news… Tried to claw his own eyes out…"

"You have no idea," said Batman.

"The Commish is working this case pretty hard. Barely left his office since. I hear he brought Crane in when they discovered his little scheme at Arkham. With a little help from yourself, of course."

"What's your point?" asked Batman.

Bullock shrugged. "Maybe it's nothing. But I've seen cops take some cases a little too personally. Destroys their careers and their home lives. Gordon seems like a good man; I'd hate to see it happen to him, y'know?"

Bullock squirmed uncomfortably before continuing. "I, uh, don't mean to be a gossip, but the Commish seems to be having some troubles at home already."

This was news to Batman. He and Gordon rarely spoke about their personal lives. For Batman the reasons were obvious, and he had allowed the Commissioner respectful privacy in turn. Batman found himself oddly troubled by this new information. Could it be genuine concern for a friend, or merely a professional apprehension over a partner's state of mind?

As if reading Batman's emotionless features, Bullock said "Not that he talks about it though. But I can tell. It's the little things… I'm good at picking up on stuff like that. It's why I'm a detective, I suppose."

This brought to mind another subject Batman felt a need to discuss. "Is that why you trust me, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Despite what's said about me?"

Bullock nodded with understanding. It was a topic he knew would be raised eventually. "I'll be honest with ya, Bats: I was originally gonna arrest you after you helped us bring in Fries. I mean, right from the start it seemed a little nuts to me; charging an urban legend with murder. But a warrant's a warrant, right?

"After I met ya, I could see it though: The way Gordon trusted ya, your attitude, your eyes… Hell, ya just seemed to have this… purpose, I suppose. I could see you weren't a killer. Then everything fell into place: What use is a vigilante if everybody knows he won't kill? Pretty smart of you and Gordon."

Batman gave a single nod of respect. He knew he could trust Bullock with this knowledge, just as he trusted Jim Gordon.

"Besides," added Bullock, "after I seen you in action, I wasn't too keen to try and slap on the cuffs, y'know what I'm saying?"

Bullock's radio started crackling for his attention.

"This is Bullock," he acknowledged into it.

"_Dispatch. We got a one-eighty-seven over at Daggett Industries, Lieutenant. Commissioner wants you to check it out."_

"On it," said Bullock. He switched off the radio and turned back to Batman. "Homicide over at–" He was talking to empty space. "'Course…"

* * *

"Mr. Daggett stays late lotsa nights," the old security guard related to Bullock. "So I didn't see anything odd about it. Today he had some meeting with that Payne fella…

"Preston Payne? The movie director?" Bullock was noting everything down as the forensics team passed in and out the office formerly belonging to Roland Daggett.

"Yeah," said the guard. "Mr. Daggett is… or, was… helping finance the movie."

"Yeah, I know," said Bullock, noting down to contact Payne later. "Go on."

"Well, I still thought he'd be long gone by this time, so I was just doing my rounds when I found… _that_."

The guard indicated Daggett's corpse, lying on the floor, covered in blood. All the skin over the face had been completely removed.

Bullock took a moment to let the chills finish running down his spine. "Alright, sir, thank you for your cooperation. We'll be in touch if we have further questions." He led the guard out the room and he followed soon after.

He entered the building's stairwell and looked up. "You see that in there?"

Batman was poised on a rail on the floor above Bullock. The detective had seen shadows moving in the ventilation shaft and immediately suspected the Dark Knight.

"The victim was stabbed in the carotid artery first, before the face was removed," said Batman, matter-of-factly. "He would've bled out fast, but not so quick that the killer removed the face _before_ he died."

"Jesus," cursed Bullock.

"It was done quickly and carefully, with very little arterial spray. We're dealing with a professional."

"Yeah," scoffed Bullock, "a professional freakin' nut job… We already got a lead anyway: this Preston Payne. Been in town lately to make some big flick…"

"_The Terror_," said Batman.

"No idea you were such a movie buff," said Bullock.

"I know everything that happens in Gotham."

"Yeah? Then who did _this_, Sherlock?"

"Something tells me it wasn't Payne…" said Batman.

"Lieutenant?" A young officer poked her head through the stairwell door.

"What is it?" said Bullock.

"You know how you told us to find Preston Payne?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we found him. He's, uh, in the lobby."

Bullock stormed out into the lobby to find Payne and another man.

"What's going on?" Preston was asking.

"You Preston Payne?" Bullock asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Lieutenant Bullock, Major Crimes Unit. Sir, I'm afraid Roland Daggett has been murdered."

"M-Murdered?" said the other man, in shock. "What do you mean?"

"Sorry, sir, you are?" asked Bullock.

"Uh, Bennett. Ethan Bennett. I'm the screenwriter for the film we're working on…"

"Well, Mr. Bennett, your financer was found dead earlier tonight – some sick bastard cut his face clean off – and I'm afraid Mr. Payne here is chief suspect."

"W-What?" said Preston. He had been pale since Bullock mentioned murder.

"You were the last person to see him alive, and–"

"But I didn't see him," said Preston. "I, uh… I haven't seen him since yesterday. I was meant to meet with him now, but I had that T.V. interview and I just got caught up in it…"

Bullock held up his hand. "I'm afraid we'll still need to get you downtown to verify all this."

"Clayface…" whispered Bennett.

"Beg your pardon, sir?" asked Bullock.

"You said his face had been cut off?" said Bennett, somehow a balance between calm and nervous.

"That's right," said Bullock, cautiously.

"Exactly like the film…" said Preston, still somewhat in shock.

Off Bullock's look, Preston started to explain. "The, uh, movie we're making; _The Terror_; its villain, Clayface, cuts off people's faces…"

All three men looked back at the open office door and felt a shiver.

"You don't… think it's something to do with the film…" said Bennett. "Do you?"

Bullock shook his head dismissively. "Let's just get you back to H.Q. for now, alright?" As he led them out, Bullock took one last look at the office door.

"Wonder who'll pay for your movie now, Payne?" he muttered to himself.

Batman, still hidden in the ventilation duct, had heard this and pondered on it himself.

* * *

As Alfred descended the stairs to the Batcave, he read an interesting article in _The_ _Gotham Times_. It was titled 'BRUCE WAYNE TO FUND FILM' and sub-titled 'Billionaire steps in to replace the late Roland Daggett.'

"Fancy yourself a movie mogul now, sir?" Alfred asked as he approached Bruce with the morning paper and brunch.

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Alfred," Bruce replied. "Besides, I would have thought you'd be happy that I was involved with remaking your favourite film."

"Oh I am, Master Wayne, I am. I'm quite the fan of Basil Karlo films, as you know. I'm just a little intrigued as to _your_ motivations."

"The M.O. behind Daggett's murder mirrors that of _The Terror_'s villain…" said Bruce.

"You mean Clayface?"

Bruce nodded. He was, as usual, going over various documents at once on his large computer screen. "I think we've got a copycat. There's going to be more murders like this: someone's trying to send a message of some kind. I just don't know what yet.

"Until I gather more information, the entire cast and crew are both at risk _and_ suspects," continued Bruce. "Funding the film gives me an excuse to keep a close eye on them."

"I gather Preston Payne himself is chief suspect," said Alfred. "According to the paper anyway."

Bruce shook his head and played a video clip on the computer. It was from the news program _Gotham Tonight_.

"Impossible," said Bruce. "Payne was being interviewed live on television when it happened. He's already been released from custody. Although, when I met with him this morning to discuss funding, he mentioned that he and Daggett had been having disagreements…"

"Did you find anything at the crime scene?"

"Just this, before forensics arrived." Bruce held up a vial containing a tiny fragment of something. "Looks like a skin flake. Could just be from the victim, but I'm gonna have Lucius look over it just in case."

Alfred nodded. "There is also the possibility that the murderer is the currently fugitive Dr. Crane."

"Unlikely. It's not his style. Finding Crane is a priority though. Gordon and Bullock are working on it and I'm running a search of all Crane's past associates – former patients, people involved in his drug ring, old colleagues – as well as cross-referencing recent police files for any relevant activity.

"We'll get him, but hopefully before he makes his move…"

* * *

Professor Avery Brahms awoke to find himself surrounded by a thick grey fog. He instinctively tried to move, but was tied onto what looked like an old-fashioned psychiatrist's couch.

"Hello?" he called out, to no reply. He tried to remember how he'd got here.

He had been returning home, only to find the power out. Before he could reset the fuses, he had been struck from behind. He also recalled hearing a hollow, haunting laugh before he passed out.

"Well, Professor," said a familiar voice in the fog, "I wonder what Freud would have to say about a pupil tying up his former teacher."

Brahms gazed into the fog in the direction of the voice. "Who is that? Who's there?"

"You know me, Professor," said the voice. "You used to fear me – how much smarter I was than you. So you corrupted your fear; twisted it into hate and cruelty. Always deriding me, putting me down in front of everyone. You were just the latest in a long line of father-figures who let me down, Professor. All because you wouldn't embrace your fear; use it like the beautiful instrument it is…"

"My God," gasped Brahms, suddenly realising the voice's source. "Jonathan? Jonathan Crane?"

"Yes, but for the moment you can call me… Scarecrow…" A vision of terror emerged from the fog. Crane was dressed in the tattered rags of a scarecrow, with a burlap sack over his head and a hangman's noose hung eerily around his neck.

"J-Jonathan, is that you?" asked Brahms. "I… I heard about you on the news… You were involved in that terrorist attack… and that gas in the Narrows?"

"I was a mere puppet," said Crane, making his spindly way over to Brahms. "But now I'm on my own. Free at last to pursue my research without hindrance."

"You mean without authority," said Brahms. "Without morals."

Crane sighed wearily. "Did you learn nothing from me in all those years, Professor? Morals are the product of a fearful society. With my knowledge, we could be free of our fears… Or learn to manage them efficiently…"

"You're sick, Jonathan. I should've realised it years ago," said Brahms.

"You're just afraid, Avery," whispered Crane. "Let me help you embrace your fear. This gas in the air is a modified version of the hallucinogen I used previously.

"It was effective but crude. I need something much more… precise for my work. You always did discourage my interest in psychopharmacology… So foolish…

"You see, I mixed the toxin with some more powerful psychedelics, dissociatives and deliriants in perfect balance to create more realistic and vibrant hallucinations. Then I modified it to directly stimulate the creative and sensory aspects of the brain as well as the memory centres…"

"My God, Jonathan! You can't be serious! Something like that would cause severe neurological damage…"

"I disagree, Professor." Crane cocked his head. "But then, that's why you're here: Wouldn't be very responsible of me to prescribe a new drug without first testing it, would it?

"My mask protects me from the gas, but you should be starting to feel the effects about now."

Brahms was indeed beginning to feel light-headed and somewhat nauseous. His perception and hearing were becoming warped.

"If this doesn't kill you, it should drag your innermost fears straight out of your sub-conscious and manifest them before you." Crane's voice was becoming distorted from the hallucinogen. "Like I said; it stimulates your memory and creative brain centres. In other words, Professor; you're gonna see some serious shit."

Brahms screamed.

* * *

"Well if it isn't Gotham's very own Orson Welles himself," said Lucius as Bruce exited the elevator onto the Applied Sciences floor.

Bruce smirked. "You heard about the movie then?"

Fox looked up from his work. "I assume you're more interested in Roland Daggett's murder than getting your name in lights?"

"Right. I found this at the crime scene." Bruce held up the vial with the skin fragment in it and handed it to Fox.

"I'll run a D.N.A. test, but there's no guarantee I'll find a match," said Fox, studying the fragment closely.

"I'd appreciate anything you can tell me," said Bruce. "Oh, and with Crane on the loose, I was wondering if you could synthesise more of the antidote you developed for his toxin. I know I'm still immune from the first time, but you can never be too careful."

Fox nodded. "I'll have it sent over as soon as it's ready." He suddenly remembered something. "Oh, I got something you might be interested in…" He put down the vial and picked up two small objects from the desk. "I figured with you having to be so close to the film crew all the time you might be ill-equipped should you encounter the killer."

Bruce nodded. "The thought had occurred to be too; I might not have time to change…"

"So I looked out these." Lucius held out his hand.

"Cufflinks?" said Bruce. The small objects looked like simple jewellery.

"I've modified them of course, Mr. Wayne," said Fox proudly. "They contain miniature flash grenades. Sound activated, but with a limited range, so you'd actually have to be wearing them to set them off."

"How do you set them off?" asked Bruce as he took the cufflinks.

"Just click your fingers. And close your eyes first; they emit a flash that should blind anyone who sees it for about five seconds."

Bruce nodded in appreciation. "Thanks." He started fastening the cufflinks to his sleeves. "Click my fingers? Not my heels?"

Lucius shrugged. "You can if you like. Won't help though."

Bruce chuckled at the joke. "I'd better go; got an important meeting about the film. I just came by to drop off the evidence."

Lucius grinned. "Nice of you to remember us little people once in a while."

* * *

"Thanks again for letting us use your home, Mr. Wayne," said Preston. He and _The Terror_'s main cast were sat in Wayne Manor's spacious study.

"Not at all. And please, call me Bruce." He smiled warmly over everyone in the room. "If you'll all just excuse me a moment; I need to check my messages with my butler."

Once out in the hall, he and Alfred spoke more freely.

"Master Wayne," said Alfred, "I hope you won't think me above my station to ask this, but have you gone completely mad?"

"What do you mean?" asked Bruce.

"Well, keeping a close eye on the cast and crew is one thing," said Alfred, "but letting them film here at the mansion? What if they discover your… private quarters?"

Bruce gave his old friend a sceptical look. "I doubt that's a risk, Alfred. Besides, delaying this movie is what the murderer wants, and they were in need of a location for most of their scenes. What was I supposed to do?"

Alfred sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing, Master Wayne."

"Me too. What can you tell me about them?" He nodded towards the study.

"Mr. Payne and Mr. Bennett seem to be having a mild dispute with one another – creative differences, I gather."

"Bennett's the scriptwriter?" asked Bruce.

"Yes, sir."

"What about the others? The actors."

"They only arrived a half hour before you got back, sir," said Alfred. "I'm afraid I haven't been able to deduce any potential motives, but then I'm hardly Auguste Dupin."

"Anything will help, Alfred."

"Well, the loutish Mr. Matthew Hagen seems to be quite, how shall I put it… enamoured with Miss Fuller, but she appears more emotional towards Miss Madison – in the form of womanly contempt."

"Madison's the lead actress?" asked Bruce.

"Quite so, sir," said Alfred. "Rumour has it Miss Fuller was set to play the main female role, only to be reduced to another, lesser, part due to Miss Madison's financial involvement. You really should read the entertainment section every so often, Master Wayne."

Bruce gave him a sly glance. "Not very helpful to me on most cases, Alfred. Have you spoken to your hero yet?"

Alfred looked away bashfully. "I, uh… have been busy with the other guests, Master Wayne…"

Bruce laughed. "Star-struck, Alfred?"

"We all have our hobbies. Mine's is old movies, and yours is much less eccentric of course." Bruce's smirk noted the sarcasm. "Now," continued Alfred, "you best get in there and see to your guests, like a good host."

Bruce went back into the study and found Payne and Bennett talking animatedly by the fireplace. Hagen, Fuller and Madison were chatting on the couch and Karlo was sat in an armchair and looked half asleep. Bruce approached the fireplace first.

"Gentlemen," he acknowledged. He got the impression he had interrupted something.

"Bruce, this is Ethan Bennett," Payne gestured towards the other man. "The co-screenwriter of our little film."

"You and Preston have worked together before, I gather?" Bruce said.

Bennett was still giving Payne a dirty look. ""Um, yes," he answered Bruce. "We co-wrote _Amnesia_ and _Sleepless_ together, and a few others…"

"I, uh, must have missed those," said Bruce. "When I was… travelling… So, you think the mansion will be good for the film?"

"Definitely," said Preston with enthusiasm. "I can see this room being used for the big dramatic reveal at the end – where the other characters discover Clayface's true identity."

Bennett smiled thinly. "If you'll excuse me…" He exited the study.

Bruce frowned. "Something wrong?" he asked Payne.

"Ah, no, no," said Preston dismissively. "He always gets this way at the beginning of big pictures. He'll calm down eventually."

"What do you mean?" asked Bruce. "Gets what way?"

"He just… wants more of a creative input. I mean, we both collaborate on the story, so he feels he should be involved in the direction."

Bruce shrugged. "Sounds fair to me."

"You don't understand the film business, Bruce. Ethan's got a lot of talent, but he just doesn't have that gift for direction. It's a complex task – an art. Don't get me wrong though; he's a master of plot and dialogue, that's why I work with him all the time."

"Huh. Well I hope it's not too much of a problem," said Bruce.

"Oh don't worry," said Preston with a winning smile. "It's not a problem. Not a problem at all…"

As his master conversed by the fireside, Alfred made his way over to Basil Karlo. Alfred had been through a lot in his lifetime: Military service, world travel, Bruce's 'mission'… But being in the same room as one of the true legends of the silver screen… That gave him pause.

Standing over Karlo's armchair, Alfred cleared his throat. "Uh, Mr. Karlo, sir?"

The near-eighty-year-old look up and strained his wrinkled features. He clearly had trouble hearing, which was no surprise. "Yes?" he said.

"I'm uh…" Alfred fumbled for words. "My name is Alfred Pennyworth, sir, and might I say, I am quite the fan of yours."

Basil smiled, and Alfred could almost see those famously classical good looks as they were fifty years ago.

"A fan?" said Basil. "How delightful. Sit down, man, sit down." He waved his cane at the free armchair next to him.

"Oh, I'm, ah, afraid my strict training would never allow me to…"

"Nonsense," said Basil. "Now, sit ye down and flatter an old man." He chuckled warmly.

Alfred smiled and said "Why not?" He sat, although still felt oddly uncomfortable sitting before company.

"Tell me, which of my old films did you like best?" Basil asked.

"Well, there's _The Terror_ of course, sir," said Alfred.

"Ah, yes. Truly one of my more favoured film roles," Basil nodded to himself. "I always felt that Clayface was a most terribly misunderstood villain…"

Alfred found himself suddenly caught up in talking about his favourite film with one its actual stars. "My feelings exactly, sir. Perhaps, that is where some of the horror comes from; that we identify with this tragic, yet misunderstood, monster."

Basil waved his finger poignantly. "Precisely! I really feel that young Preston has wonderfully captured this aspect in his version. Truth be told, I would not be here unless I though so."

"I, ah, also enjoyed some of your more classical work," said Alfred, eager to keep the conversation going. "Your parts in those Shakespearean adaptations… Marvellous job, and tricky to pull of right."

Basil smiled in pure joy. "Ahhh, a man of the classics, how wonderful. It is rare to find men of our taste these days, Alfred."

"Actually, sir, I myself have treaded the boards in my youth," said Alfred, feeling quite confident now.

"A theatre man!" said Basil. "Grand! You've done some Shakespeare yourself?"

Alfred nodded. "On occasion. _As You Like It_, _The Merchant of Venice_, _Henry V_…"

"I do love the _Henry_'s myself," said Basil. "Especially the Sixth." He looked off wistfully into the distance. "There's a brilliant line about the fleeting nature of fame in _Henry VI_ but I can't quite recall…"

"_Glory is like a circle in the water," _said Alfred, _"which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till by broad spreading it disperses to naught."_

Basil was greatly humbled by this recital. "Bravo, sir," he said quietly. "I have always liked that line. I cannot help but feel it gets more and more significant with each year…"

"Oh, not at all, sir," protested Alfred. "Surely this remake has shown that your legacy will live on?"

"Forgive my ghoulish outlook," said Basil with a thin smile. "I'm just getting old. But you're right; this new film has reinvigorated me somewhat. You might say I have rediscovered myself."

"Good to hear it, sir. It's never too late, and all that."

"Exactly, Alfred. Exactly."

There was a beeping sound. It was Alfred's pager, which connected to the Batcave. "Pardon me a moment, sir," he excused himself. The Cave's super-computer had found something in one of its search programs. Alfred left to consult his miniature gadget.

Meanwhile, Preston had gone to check on Bennett, so Bruce had been talking to the film's stars.

"Hell of a pad you got here, Wayne," said the square-jawed Hagen, despite looking generally unimpressed.

"It's so cool," said Madison, knocking back another glass of wine. "Kinda reminds me of my dad's house in L.A… Or is it the one in Florida…?"

"Must be nice to have inherited so much," said Fuller with a sting in her voice.

Madison was oblivious to the tone. "Oh yeah. That's how come I wanna be an actress. I already have most of the lifestyle, I figured 'why not?'"

Fuller put on a false smile. "Well, that's all there is to it, right?"

"It's all I need," said Hagen. He leered at Madison lecherously. "You certainly got the looks for a movie star, kid."

"Thanks," Madison giggled. "What about you, Bruce?" she asked. "What makes you so interested in movies?"

Bruce was taken aback slightly by the question. "Oh, uh, well, I'm always looking for new sources of income." He laughed and the others joined him; Hagen guffawed knowingly, Fuller chuckled politely and Madison tittered vacuously.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred had returned. "I'm afraid there's a _situation_ that requires your immediate attention."

* * *

"Could you repeat that, Lieutenant?"

"Sure thing, Commish." Bullock flipped open his notepad. "Avery Brahms, 68, retired psychology professor… Scared to death."

"That's the best forensics could come up with?" asked Gordon in disbelief. Standing in Brahms' front room staring down at the awkward chalk outline on the floor, Gordon recalled the look of total horror frozen on the corpse's face and suddenly found the cause of death quite believable.

"Massive cardiac arrhythmia," said Bullock. "The guy was old, but in relatively good shape, according to the docs. They reckon something spooked him bad."

"Jonathan Crane was one of Brahms' students." The two cops turned at this gravely voice to see Batman standing in the dark.

"We know. That's why we're here," said Gordon, completely unfazed by the Dark Knight's sudden appearance. "Crane's up to his old tricks."

"When the coroner examines Brahms' blood, some of Crane's psychotropic hallucinogen will no doubt be present," said Batman.

"What's his deal this time, then?" asked Bullock. "He can't just be after his old teachers. 'Less he really hated detention or something."

"He's studying," said Batman. "Experimenting. That's what he does. To him it's part revenge, part science, and part sheer morbid curiosity."

Gordon shook his head. "Something's different this time… Something about the way the body looked… Scared to death…" He whispered the last part to himself.

There was a heavy silence in the dim light, until Bullock's radio once again squawked to life. "Goddam piece a crap…" the burly detective muttered as he walked outside to answer the machine.

"You've been working hard on this case," Batman said to Gordon. It was probably meant to sound sympathetic, but his voice remained the same as it always did.

"That's my job, isn't it?" said Gordon defensively. "I don't just sit back in that office and wait for you to save the day, you know. I _am_ a cop!" He turned from Batman and pretended to survey the scene.

Batman stepped into the light with measured risk and said a word he had been practicing for over two years.

"Jim… you were Crane's original arresting officer, only to have him escape on you. But that wasn't your fault. You're not responsible for his actions…"

Gordon hung his head in the gloom. "I know, I know… I've had perps escape on me before. I've even seen men get off scot-free from crimes far worse than this… But with Crane, it's different… It's like it's more personal… Like he's mocking me with every body we find."

"That's what he wants," said Batman. "He does it to try and intimidate us. It's all part of his game. Men like Crane or the Joker think they're clever because of tactics like this, but we have to show them we're above it. Don't let it become personal, Jim. Just do the job."

Gordon turned to face him. "I will. But you can't tell me you don't sometimes feel responsible for them. Crane…? Joker…? Dent?" The last one hit the room like a blunt weight.

Oblivious to the atmosphere, Lt. Bullock came back in. "Commish? You're gonna want to hear this. There's been a murder – at Wayne Manor."


	2. The Show Must Go On

**THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM**

Act II – "The Show Must Go On"

"Someone in this room," said Lt. Bullock, "is a murderer."

Gordon quickly shot Bullock one of his looks. The two detectives had been called out to Wayne Manor, where there had indeed been a homicide. Ethan Bennett, _The Terror_'s screenwriter, had been found murdered in the same style as Roland Daggett – face removed and left to bleed to death. There was no doubt they were dealing with a serial killer now.

"This isn't the time for jokes, Lieutenant," said Preston Payne. The film's director was sat on the couch in the study, visibly devastated by the death. "He was… He was my best friend… And now… he's gone…"

Gordon stepped forward to ease the tension. "I apologise for Lt. Bullock's… inappropriate humour." Another look confirmed that Bullock would get a talking to later. "And I promise you, we'll get to the bottom of this."

The Commissioner surveyed the other occupants of the room. Young Julie Madison was quietly crying in the corner – she was the one who had discovered the body and it had upset her greatly. Matt Hagen was comforting her, but didn't seem too affected himself. Sondra Fuller stood by the window looking disturbed. She was older than Madison by at least a decade, and more practiced at containing her grief. Basil Karlo sat by the fireplace and gazed deeply into the flickering embers. Bruce Wayne's butler, ever the gentleman, stood attentively by the door, but Wayne himself was notable by his absence – apparently called away on business.

Despite Bullock's jovial tone, Gordon knew it was possible that one of these people had killed Bennett. For once, it seemed that the police were ahead of Batman. It was difficult to tell, but the Dark Knight had seemed surprised when Bullock reported the murder, and Gordon hadn't seen any sign of him at the crime scene. He was not worried however; he knew the Batman would show himself when he wanted to.

"I got here as quick as I could…" said someone behind him. It was Wayne, just now arriving back at the mansion, so it would seem. "Alfred, what's going on? What are all these police doing here?"

"Um, Master Wayne…" started the butler.

"'Fraid there's been a murder in your home, Mr. Wayne," Bullock bluntly interrupted.

"Murder?" Wayne repeated in surprise. "Surely there's been some mistake, officer…?"

"Lieutenant Harvey Bullock. This is Commissioner Gordon…"

Gordon politely stepped forward. Unlike Bullock, he believed in treading softly. "We've already met…" said the Commissioner. Wayne seemed confused at this. "Last year? You had a car accident…?"

"Oh yeah," Wayne nodded though it was clear he had no idea what Gordon was talking about. Gordon didn't see a reason to mention their first meeting years ago, after Wayne's parents' deaths. Wayne was unlikely to recall it.

"But what's going on here, Commissioner?" asked the billionaire.

"First, Wayne," said Bullock, "can you tell us where you've been for the past hour 'n' a half?"

"I, uh, had to meet with Lucius Fox, my CEO. At Wayne Enterprises…" said Wayne. "Mr. Fox can verify this…"

"I'm sure he can," said Bullock, noting down this information. "Little late for a business meeting, ain't it?"

"It was an emergency meeting," said Wayne. His tone was factual, not defensive. "Some problem with a prototype or something, I don't remember… Can someone please tell me what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," said Gordon. "We just have to be thorough."

"Ethan's dead!" Preston blurted out in exasperation. "Some… Some sick bastard killed him…" He looked away, too emotional to go on.

"It was horrible," sobbed Julie. "They… They cut off his face."

"My God…" gasped Wayne in total horror. This was clearly far more serious that what he was used to dealing with on a daily basis.

"Just like Daggett…" Fuller added ominously from the window.

"It appears you have a sinister motive on your hands, detectives," said Karlo without looking up from the fire.

"Alright, alright!" said Bullock, waving his hands for silence. "Let's just all calm down here. Now, as far as I can tell from your statements, these are the facts:

"After the murder of Roland Daggett by someone copying this Clayface character, Mr. Wayne here graciously steps in to fill the cash void. So you all come over to his big home to talk about filming and all that jazz.

"Mr. Wayne gets called away and some time after that Mr. Payne went upstairs to check on Bennett, who had stormed out due to a disagreement. That right so far, Mr. Payne?"

The comment about the 'disagreement' had stung Preston somewhat, but he nodded.

Bullock continued. "You and he had an argument over something about writing credit?"

Preston nodded heavily. "I… I always got a co-writing credit on my movies… Wanted to be a Hollywood Renaissance man… But Ethan did all the writing himself, on all the films we did together, and I promised him a… leg-up into the directing business in exchange for sharing the acclaim for the scripts.

"He… He just wanted the proper credit he was due… And I was too arrogant…" Preston couldn't continue.

No-one commented, and Bullock returned to his recital. "This row is confirmed by Miss Fuller, who heard it from the upstairs hall as she went to the bathroom. Only she claims to have heard it suddenly go quiet and then some sounds of a struggle…"

"It didn't sound violent," said Fuller. "Just like… scuffling."

"But," said Bullock, "here we have Mr. Hagen, who says he saw Payne roughly around this time, that right?"

Hagen shrugged. "I was outside having a smoke and I saw Preston…"

"I was angry," said Preston. "After the argument… Just needed some fresh air…"

"Also corroborated by Mr. Karlo," said Bullock. "Out for a walk, were you, sir?"

Karlo nodded slowly. "I'm afraid I have been made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Lieutenant." Karlo tapped his right leg with his cane. "Too much age and vice has left me with a poor limp, but I must frequently exercise my leg, lest it worsen. I took a stroll, soon after Mr. Hagen had returned from his respite, and saw young Preston still walking off his folly."

"Which then brings us to Miss Madison," said Bullock, fully in his element. He turned on his heel to face the youthful celebrity. "You said that you went to check on Bennett and Payne, only to discover the former's body lying on the floor."

Julie started sobbing again and Hagen wrapped his arms around her with very little tact.

Bullock pushed his hat brim back and put his hands on his wide hips; proud of his oratory skills. "It seems," said Bullock, "that the only person who can account for his whereabouts the entire time is you, Mr. Pennyworth." He looked over at Alfred by the door. "You were here in the study the entire time. And here I was gonna say 'the butler did it' and go home early."

Alfred merely raised an eyebrow at the Lieutenant's crude wit.

"Alfred?" said Preston weakly. "Could I have a glass of water please? I have to take my medication. For my hyperpituitarism. Nothing serious…"

"Certainly, sir," said Alfred. As he poured Preston his drink, Gordon took Bullock out into the hall.

"What do you think?" he asked Bullock.

Bullock shrugged. "They're all guilty. Just not of murder."

"You don't think it was one of them?" Gordon asked.

"It's a big house, Commish," said Bullock. "Somebody could get in and out without being seen easy. But that don't mean it ain't one of the Z-listers in there. I mean, they're celebrities; of course they're hiding something. But is one of them hiding murder…? I dunno. Yet."

Gordon sighed and did some quick mental organising. "Alright. You take this and I'll continue with the Crane case."

Bullock briefly thought about contesting the Commissioner's decision – he had already been working himself too hard trying to bring in Crane – but then decided it would be futile.

"We'll get back to Central for now; let forensics finish up here," said Gordon. "Let me know if anything turns up."

They both walked back into the large study. "Thank you for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen," said Gordon, using his best 'there's-nothing-to-see-here' voice. "We have all we need and will keep you apprised of future developments in this investigation."

"Guess this kinda puts a damper on your flick, huh?" said Bullock.

Preston suddenly looked up. "Oh no, Lieutenant. We'll finish the movie. _The Terror_ was as much Ethan's dream project as it was mine. Whoever this… monster is that killed him, he clearly wants to deter our progress and we _can't_ let that happen… For Ethan… _The Terror_ will be made and not only will Ethan get the credit he deserves, but it'll be dedicated to his memory."

Preston looked at the actors with determination. "We need to make this film, now more than ever. I'm… just sorry it took Ethan's death to make it happen…"

* * *

The morning after Bennett's murder had found Preston in a more upbeat mood. He had arrived at Wayne Manor early with the film crews and was now getting ready for a scene in the gardens, mere hours after the police forensics team had departed with the remains of his best friend.

Bruce watched from the patio as the young movie mogul issued orders and dealt out encouragement. He was trying to create a sense of teamwork and camaraderie in Bennett's name. Bruce could not tell if it was how Preston was dealing with his grief or something more sinister.

A cry of "Whoops!" interrupted his observations as someone bumped into him from behind. It was a member of the crew by the looks of him: late 20s yet dressed like a teenager in a _Terminator 2_ T-shirt and baggy jeans, his hair lank and unwashed. He had been carrying a box of props that he had dropped. "Sorry, man."

"Don't worry about it," said Bruce. He bent down to help pick up the random objects. "You, uh, work on the set?"

"Yeah," said the man proudly. "I'm kinda the gofer just now, but I really wanna get into special effects and make-up design, y'know?"

Bruce nodded along. "Listen, uh…"

"Burt," the man offered. "Burt Weston."

"Burt. You know much about movies?"

"Hell yeah, man!" said Burt. "I'm a total film freak!"

Bruce squinted at the awkwardness of the question. "You think you could tell me a little bit about this film?"

Burt looked at him in surprise. "You mean you don't even know what _The Terror_'s about?"

Bruce shrugged and put on the dumb playboy routine. "I was just caught up in the whole Hollywood thing, but now with these murders… Maybe I should get clued in, y'know?"

"Well there's, like, these scientists: Sean Perlman, Portia Storm and George Keaton," said Burt. "And they're investigating this mysterious protoplasm in some cave. But, see, all the while Perlman's secretly in love with Portia; they've known each other for years. Then they meet this guy, Keaton, who's also studying the plasma. Portia starts to fall for him, which makes Perlman all jealous like. Plus, Keaton's much smarter than Perlman, who has all these crazy ideas about the protoplasm being from another planet and stuff.

"So, one night, when trying to prove his theories and impress Portia, Perlman takes a tumble into the protoplasm. When he comes out, he's got awesome shape-shifting powers, but he's slowly dying 'cause of it. It all gets too much for him and he starts killing off the other scientists, and he's trying to get to Keaton, but when he sees that Portia is afraid of what he's become, he kills her in anger. Then Keaton kills Perlman. Tragic ending; really unconventional for the time."

"I see," said Bruce, taking in Burt's hurried synopsis.

"Oh, and in the remake, they've added another main character," said Burt. "A reporter called Summer Gleason, who's also studying the plasma. She's the only one who shows Perlman any compassion after he becomes Clayface, but he still goes crazy. Mr. Payne says they added her because it gave another side to the story, but rumour has it she was only included to give Miss Fuller a role."

"After Julie Madison took the Portia Storm role?" asked Bruce.

"Yup," nodded Burt. "It's a really awesome story though. I'm totally psyched to be working on it!" Someone called his name from the set. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Wayne. Better get back to work."

As Weston left him, Bruce couldn't help thinking about how faithfully their serial killer would mimic the movie's Clayface. Were the actors in danger of fulfilling their roles _too_ closely?

* * *

"What the hell are you doing walking through the middle of my scene!?" Hagen screamed at a lighting technician. "Do it again and you're off the set, so help me!"

Alfred watched this from a short distance. Hagen's outburst, though excessive, was understandable. The atmosphere had been grim in light of the murders, yet Preston was still attempting to energize everyone into a positive mood. It was only a matter of time before these opposing attitudes collided and caused flared tempers. Alfred imagined that, ordinarily, Mr. Hagen would have stormed to his trailer, but his substitute in this case – an overpriced hotel room – was outside of storming distance, so he simply calmed down and continued with the scene.

"What fools these mortals be, eh, Alfred?" said Basil, hobbling up to him.

"Indeed, Mr. Karlo," said Alfred. "Would you like me to find you a seat, sir?"

"Oh no," Basil dismissed the offer with a wave. "I'm taking my morning exercise. And I've told you to call me Basil."

"Apologies, Mist– Basil. My rigid tuition as a gentleman's gentleman once again, I'm afraid."

Basil smiled and nodded. He gestured back at the set. "Matthew's anger is misplaced. Mr. Daggett's death was terrible, but none of us, save Preston, really knew him. However poor Ethan was friend to all of us. Matthew is simply dealing with the loss in his own way. Having said that, I wouldn't mind having some of that youthful passion back again."

"And I," chuckled Alfred. "But that is our lot, I suppose. I am sometimes harsh with Master Wayne in regards to his… reckless behaviour, but I do envy his spirit."

Basil laughed knowingly. "We do like living vicariously, don't we?"

"I think in Master Wayne's case, I'm quite happy where I am," said Alfred light-heartedly.

"It is good to have young friends again," said Basil. "Before, I merely pottered around my lonely home, but now I am out and about once again; I have even given up drinking and smoking in hopes of improving my health." He indicated his leg.

"Glad to hear it, Basil," said Alfred.

"No! No! No!" yelled Hagen, once again throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to take a walk! Shoot it again!"

"Perhaps Mr. Hagen could be doing with some of your positive outlook," said Alfred.

* * *

Gotham City nightlife was a world unto its own. Those who did not slither from shadow to dishonest shadow circulated in brightly lit night clubs for all manner of purposes, running the entire range of legality.

Shelley Squires was part of the latter crowd. She had come to one of Gotham's more popular spots, "The Nightmare Room", with a group of friends. With several top movie stars visiting Gotham, they had been hoping to catch a glimpse of Julie Madison or Matt Hagen. Having had no such luck, her friends eventually turned to some of the club's young men, but Shelley was not in the mood.

Unseen by her companions, Shelley wandered outside into the grey rain. Although she had not drank as much as her cohorts, she was quite tipsy and in the mood for a cigarette.

She staggered down an alleyway for shelter. Generally not a good idea in Gotham City, but the combination of alcohol and desperation had driven some of her sense away.

"Cigarette?" a kind voice offered from the darkness. He sounded familiar and Shelley thought it was one of the men from the club. In the gloom and the rain he was hard to make out though. But he did offer her what she wanted.

She hadn't smoked in months, but she took the treat from the stranger with a smile. "Thanks. You followed me out, huh?"

"I couldn't resist," said the man in the shadows. A flame flickered as he ignited a lighter and proffered it to her.

Shelley lit the cigarette and took a much needed breath from it. The stranger's face was vaguely illuminated by the flame.

"You look familiar," she told him.

"I saw you in the club," he explained. "From across the dance floor. You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself as much as your friends."

"Yeah," said Shelley. "But… Have I seen you somewhere before tonight?" She took another draw from the cigarette and made a note to ask what brand they were – they were much more intoxicating than her usual label.

"Oh yes, Shelley," said the stranger. "We go way back…"

"How did you…?" She was starting to feel drowsy. But why? She hadn't drunk that much, had she? Then she removed the cigarette from her mouth, letting out one last puff of acrid smoke.

She stared at the little white stick in realisation. Her thoughts began swimming; the world was thrashing wildly before her; everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time; she just wanted to lie down.

"Yes," said the stranger in cruel victory. He stepped forward out of the shadows and he had become a Scarecrow; bony and ragged, like a rotting corpse.

The Scarecrow lowered her gently to the ground; she was too tired to protest and her limbs didn't seem to be obeying her anyway. She just wanted to sleep, but everything was pounding at her head. What was it her mother had told her about strange men?

_"We must not look at goblin men, we must not taste their fruits,"_ sang the Scarecrow, its voice like nails on the chalkboard of her mind. _"Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots…"_

* * *

"Barbara, please just listen to me. I know things are tough, but…" The Commissioner paused to let his wife scream down the phone at him. "I know, sweetheart, I know. It's just… This case is very important…" Gordon knew those were the wrong words even as he spoke them.

"_They all are, Jim!"_ said Barbara, before slamming down the phone.

Gordon hung his head as he put down the reciever and sighed. "You can come in now, Bullock."

The Lieutenant poked his round face through the door. "Sorry, Commish. Couldn't help overhearing and thought I'd better wait 'til you was done…"

"Come in," Gordon waved for Bullock to be seated. "What have you got for me, Lieutenant?"

"You, uh, having some troubles at home, sir?"

"What have you got?" Gordon repeated with a sternly professional tone.

Bullock nodded and tabled his concern for now. "The Daggett murder. Turns out there was a robbery the same night. With everything goin' on, guess they just didn't notice 'til now."

"What was stolen?" asked Gordon.

"Some chemicals and stuff," Bullock shook his head. "I dunno what their properly called; it's in the report. But that's what I think you'll find interesting." Bullock passed his file to Gordon.

Gordon flicked through the report, which contained various chemical symbols. He looked to Bullock for a summary.

"There were traces of those chemicals found in Professor Brahms' blood," said Bullock.

Gordon leaned forward. "Are you saying Crane killed Roland Daggett? And then stole from him?"

"No," said Batman, who stepped out the dark. "It doesn't fit."

"You gotta get better lighting in here, Commish," Bullock quipped.

"Crane _didn't_ kill Daggett?" asked Gordon.

"Crane's modified his toxin in some way," said Batman, "and to do that, he needed certain chemical compounds that pharmaceutical corporations often store. On their own, the chemicals aren't lethal, so they aren't usually well guarded. With Daggett Industries recently in the media spotlight, they were the prime focus for Crane's attention.

"It's an alarming coincidence," finished Batman, "but nothing more."

"You just love making our job harder, don't ya?" said Bullock.

"That ties in with what one of Crane's former associates told us this afternoon," said Gordon. He held up another file for Batman to read.

Batman didn't take the file. "I know," he said.

"Well I don't!" protested Bullock. "Some of us have lives, y'know."

"Jefferson Skeevers, a mid-level dealer, was pulled in today," explained Gordon. "Apparently he was involved with Crane's drug ring last year; offered to give us some information in exchange for leniency.

"With Crane's recent escape, Skeevers thought we might like to know where he kept his toxin. He gave us the address of a storage unit in Burnley known for its 'no questions asked' policy. It was empty, of course, but Crane's prints were all over it."

"Great," said Bullock. "So now we know he's got his entire supply of the stuff _and_ he's making it even worse."

"He took another victim tonight," said Batman. "You need to get your men out looking for her before it's too late."

Both Gordon and Bullock reacted with surprise. "What?" said Gordon. "How do you know?"

"Shelley Squires, 33, was reported missing while out with her friends, near Polic Avenue," said Batman.

"I hate to sound unfeeling," said Bullock, "but: So? What's she got to do with Crane?"

"She attended Gotham University the same time as he did," Batman explained. "They shared classes."

"How do–?" Bullock started to ask. "Ah, forget it."

"So it's personal this time," said Gordon. "First Brahms, now Squires. He must have something against her." The Commissioner was already dialling numbers.

"We can only hope that's the extent of his goals," said Batman. "Personal vendettas increase the chances of him making a mistake and getting caught."

"We can also hope we catch the bastard before he kills that poor girl," added Bullock.

* * *

Shelley slowly awoke and instinctively tried to reach for her aching head, only to find her arms tied down. She was lying on some kind of couch, surrounded by a grey mist. The Scarecrow sat watching her, its fingers steepled and its gaze chilling.

"Who are you?" Shelley managed to ask, her voice weak and trembling.

"I've always been watching you, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. Its voice crept through the mist like a spider walking over glass. "In the club, at home, in college…

"Advanced Chemistry, class of oh-one? You were so beautiful, but you could never look twice at me. Not with all the nasty rumours and hearsay about me. Why flaunt popular opinion, right? Why go against the flow?

"You've always been afraid of independent thought, haven't you, Shelley? What if your friends don't like you for who you are? Then you'd be all alone… Better to nod along with whatever everyone else thinks…"

Shelley had been listening to all this with an ever increasing feeling of dread. "How… do you know all this?" she asked.

"I know you, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. "I know what drives you; what torments you… Fear. Fear of being alone. It's a common phobia, but yours was so great that it destroyed any sense of individuality you had. And now you're surrounded by so many bright, shiny, colourful friends and yet inside you're so empty…"

"Who…are…you?" Shelley asked again, with tears forming in her eyes.

The Scarecrow rose from its seat and stood looming over Shelley. "You'd never remember me by my real name, Shelley," it said. "Now I am merely Scarecrow." It bent over so its face was inches from Shelley's. She could see now that although it had human eyes, there was no soul behind them.

"I'll show you your fears, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. "I'll show you how the void is much bigger within than without. And then, when you are at the limit of your terror, when your heart can withstand no more torment from your mind, I'll watch you die at the hands of your own failings."

Shelley's eyes started to glaze over as the hallucinogen in the air seeped into her lungs. The Scarecrow ran his gloved hand over her face; the coarse material lightly scratching her gentle features.

"Your screams," said the Scarecrow, "will be exquisite…"

* * *

"Crane got another one last night, Alfred," Bruce solemnly reported. Although it was midday, Bruce was only just eating his breakfast, which he had chosen to partake in the kitchen, so as to stay out of the way of the film crew and actors.

"Tragic news, sir," said Alfred. "But you cannot blame yourself. Your focus is split; with these Clayface murders."

Despite this emotional support, Bruce's expression did not show any alleviation of guilt. "Gordon's men searched the area where Squires disappeared. They found a cigarette laced with sedative in an alleyway. Her body was found in the same alley this morning. 'Scared to death'… He preyed on her like an animal…"

"Oh, hello," interrupted Fuller as she strolled into the kitchen. "I just came to get something to eat; I hope you don't mind…"

"Not at all," said Bruce, putting on a smile. "Help yourself." Bruce had already been supplying _The Terror'_s staff with food and drink, since they hadn't been able to afford caterers.

"I shall be outside, sir," said Alfred, "replenishing the drinks table." He departed with a tray of water and fruit juices.

Bruce returned to the newspaper, flicking to the business section to maintain his image. Fuller helped herself to some cheese slices and sat down across the short, oak table from him.

"That, uh, all you're having?" Bruce asked casually.

Fuller raised an eyebrow. "Have to watch my figure, you know. Not that anyone's going to be paying attention to me, with Little Miss Hungover in second billing."

"You mean Julie?" asked Bruce.

"I shouldn't be saying anything, of course," said Fuller. "I know how you society types stick together."

"I've barely spoken to her," said Bruce. He switched into an investigative mindset, but kept his tone informal. "What's the story with you two anyway?"

Fuller smirked bitterly. "For someone who's in the glossy magazines so often, you don't seem to have your finger on the pulse, Bruce."

He shrugged. "I'm a busy man. Besides, I'm usually moving a little too fast to read, y'know?"

Fuller sighed and shrugged. "I got a call from Preston a couple of months back," she explained, "offering me some big part in an indie film he was working on. I was finishing up some piece-of-shit rom-com, but agreed to meet with him about it.

"Of course, by the time I met Preston, _Julie_ had joined the cast, and so had her money. The 'big part' I was promised had magically turned into this reporter character who has about three scenes."

"So why did you take it?" asked Bruce.

"In this business, Brucie, you take what you can get. Even _after_ you're nominated by the Academy." Her voice turned into a secret whisper. "Plus, and I don't mean to sound cold, but with these murders _The Terror_ has become the most talked about film of the decade. You can't buy that kind of publicity."

"Publicity…?" Bruce repeated to himself. It was an angle he had not considered. "You're not afraid you might be next?" he asked Fuller.

She shrugged. "I dunno… It just seems so… unreal. Like being in a movie, I suppose…" With that, Fuller rose abruptly from the table. "I'd, uh… better get back outside. Thanks for the cheese." She exited.

Bruce took a breath, then said "How long you been standing there?" to an apparently empty room.

"Long enough," said Julie, stepping into the kitchen from the side door. She had the smile of a child caught looking for Christmas presents.

Bruce offered a smile. "Don't pay too much attention to Sondra; she's just… worked up. We all are. It's not easy with these deaths hanging over everything."

Julie took the seat vacated by Fuller. "I know. But she's kinda right. I mean, Sondra's done _real_ movies – like, period dramas and stuff – and this is just my first one."

Bruce struggled not to roll his eyes as he gave some pitiful words of encouragement. "Doesn't necessarily mean she's better than you."

"She's been nominated for an Oscar and I've been on a 'Top Ten Best Nip-Slips' list," said Julie, giving Bruce a blunt look.

Bruce shrugged with a boyish grin. "Were you at least number one?"

Julie laughed. "Number three actually."

"Well, it's not all bad," said Bruce. Since it was obvious he wasn't going to get peace to himself any time soon, he decided to nonchalantly question Julie to see what he could learn.

"What made you wanna take up acting?" he asked her.

Julie seemed taken aback by the query. "Oh, uh… When my dad died he left me all his money from his hotels and I guess I went a little… crazy for a while…"

"Crazy?"

"Yeah. Surely you must have seen _one_ of the nine-zillion magazine covers I was on, looking absolutely wrecked during a night out?"

Bruce smiled politely and shook his head.

"Huh," said Julie. "Well, loosing my dad kinda hit me real hard and I just had a… _unique_ way of coping. It was reckless and dumb, but grief has a strange effect on people…" Julie sighed this off. "Anyway, after a while I decided to do something important with my life, and since I'd been _pretending_ for the cameras anyway, I figured; why not do it for a living?"

Bruce looked down solemnly at the table. The familiarity of Julie's story had momentarily broken through his façade. "I know something of how losing a loved one can give your life focus…" he said.

Julie's eyes widened in embarrassment. "Oh, s-sorry, I forgot…"

"It's okay," said Bruce, looking into her eyes with equivalence. "I guess I'm still a little 'crazy' from it all…"

Julie cocked her head. "I dunno… I think you've already found your purpose."

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked warily.

Julie gave him a coquettish look. "Something about your eyes… You're hiding something, Bruce Wayne, but I'll figure it out," she teased. "I'll get to the bottom of your secret…"

* * *

"I know your secret!" said Fuller. "I know you're the killer! The monster everyone's looking for!"

"What!?" yelled Preston as he turned to face her. "How do you know that!?"

"Please," scoffed Fuller. "I'm too talented _not_ to figure it out. But I can help you. I know you're not really a monster…"

"Oh," Preston glowered, "but I am!" He leapt forward and grasped his hands around Fuller's neck and watched her body go limp as the life was choked from her.

"Cut!" shouted Preston. "How'd that look? Good?" A bell sounded and the lights in the ballroom were brought up, revealing the film crew. Preston helped Fuller off the floor. "You were great, Sondra, but maybe a little more thrashing around in your death scene, 'kay?"

"I thought that might look a little cheesy…?" Fuller was saying, but Preston had already darted over to the assistant director to watch the recorded footage.

"Basil!" Preston was shouting across the room. "Somebody find Basil, I want him to see this."

Alfred was once again watching proceedings from the back of the room. He noticed Matt Hagen sitting in his chair looking quite sullen.

"He's like a child, isn't he, Mr. Hagen?" Alfred asked, trying to stir up conversation.

"Who? Preston?" said Hagen. "If you mean stupid and loud, then yeah."

"I was, uh, referring to his enthusiasm and elation, sir," said Alfred.

Hagen sneered. "Sure…"

"You do not share Mr. Payne's excitement?" Alfred asked.

"It's a great part," said Hagen, suddenly showing his acting talent. "Really emotional and physical. Good script, deep character…"

"Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Hagen," said Alfred, "but you sound like you've been rehearsing that line."

Hagen smirked. "A part's a part, Alfie, but–"

"_Alfred."_

"–I don't really get all this cult stuff that's got everybody so riled up. There's this huge fan base around some dumb horror flick… I prefer doing action movies; a lot less talky, y'know? Personally, I don't see why we're even continuing with this serial killer on the loose. Seems a little weird."

"Matt?" Preston was calling him. "We need a few shots of you now."

Hagen wearily rose from his chair, but sauntered out the door. "Whatever," he said. "I'm going for a smoke. Back in five."

Preston nodded resignedly. "Okay… Uh, everybody take five minutes. Good idea. Yeah."

* * *

"I suppose I'll always think of it as My Father's House," said Bruce. "Even after rebuilding it." He and Julie had taken to strolling the grounds outside. There was something he found… intriguing about her.

"I know what that's like," said Julie. Her previously flamboyant attitude was gone and there seemed an honesty to her now. "My dad had five places in the States alone. All mine now, but… not really mine."

Bruce tried desperately to hold on to his detective mindset. He was conducting an investigation, nothing more. But the more he talked to Julie, the easier he found it to let go and lose himself in the sense of freedom and sincerity she created. So much of what she said mirrored Bruce's own thoughts. His own… soul?

"You feel like you're just the caretaker," Bruce found himself saying. "For a memory…"

Julie smiled and looked into his eyes. Hers were blue and seemed so piercing yet so understanding. She was sharing much with him that had never been told, but still it felt that there was more to her. "Exactly," she said. "Bruce, why do I get the feeling that even though you've told me so much, there's still so much more beneath the surface?"

Bruce smiled and, to his surprise, it wasn't forced. "I was just thinking the same about you…"

They stared at one another a moment and Bruce started to wonder if it were even possible for him to share his life with someone without Batman coming into it. He had had flirtations with many women in order to maintain his cover image, but with Julie he felt that he would want something so much more. Something genuine. Something honest. Something real.

"What's the first movie you ever saw?" Julie asked casually.

"What?" Bruce was thrown off by the change in tone.

Julie shrugged. "You talk like you haven't seen a movie since black-and-white. Everybody remembers what the first movie they ever saw was. What was yours?"

For the first time in too long, Bruce found himself immersed in a genuinely happy memory. "When I was… six or seven… my mom and dad took me to see _The Mark of Zorro_ at some old theatre. That's my earliest memory of seeing a movie, anyway… We rarely got a chance to all go out together, what with my father's work… But when we did, it didn't matter where we went…"

"Was that the one with Antonio Banderas?" asked Julie.

Bruce laughed at her youthful ignorance.

"Your laugh…" said Julie. "It's like you don't use it much. Not the real one anyway."

"Julie…" said Bruce and he tentatively put his hands on her arms. "I want you to know… how difficult it is for me… to talk about my parents, or anything than means so much to me."

She slowly slid towards him, into his arms. "I know, Bruce, because it's the same for me. I know what it's like to have everyone look at you as if you have everything you want, but in truth…"

"…You've never had what you really want," finished Bruce. They were now lost in one another's gaze. There was no more talking. Their lips were drawn closer…

Then Bruce sensed it. Sensed, rather than saw or heard, the falling object directly above them. His training had prepared him for such attacks and he instantly reacted accordingly.

He leapt forward onto the ground with Julie in his arms as a chunk of masonry landed heavily in the area they had been occupying.

"What the hell was that!?" asked Julie, looking over his shoulder.

"The roof!" shouted Bruce. He was on his feet in a blur and looked up to see a figure spying on them from above.

Bruce ran as fast as he could through the front door of the mansion and into the main hall. He bolted straight up the stairs and headed for the roof access. A cloaked figure quickly bolted from the doorway in front of him and sprinted down the main corridor, with Bruce in close pursuit.

Although hooded, Bruce had caught a clear glimpse of his assailant's identity – Sondra Fuller. She had briefly turned to mark his progress when rounding a corner. Bruce put any questions concerning her guilt and motivation to one side until he caught her. She was damned fast, but Bruce knew his home better.

As she took a left turn towards the ballroom, Bruce headed right to cut her off. But he stopped short when he came upon an empty corridor. Then he saw her cloak; discarded in front of the ballroom door. He barged into the large room with furious calm.

"Fuller!" he shouted, attracting the attention of the entire cast and crew, who were filming a scene.

"Cut," said Preston wearily. "Bruce, please don't shout when we're filming…"

"Sondra Fuller just tried to kill me and Julie," Bruce declared, pointing accusingly at the actress, who feigned ignorance.

"What?" she said, bluffing remarkably well. "What are you saying? Something happened to you and Julie? Is she okay?"

"Don't gimme that!" shouted Bruce. "You just dropped a chunk of rock on us, and then I chased you in here!"

There were murmurs coming from the crowded room.

"Sir," said Alfred, who had approached Bruce. "Miss Fuller has been filming in here for several minutes now."

"What?" said Bruce. "That's not possible… I saw her. It was her…"

"Bruce," said Preston, "just calm down. Is Julie alright?"

"Yeah," said Bruce, his thoughts now returning to a more efficient pace. "She's outside…"

"Someone better go and check on her," said Preston. "Whoever did this may still be around. Call the police, somebody…"

As everyone starting moving cautiously around, Bruce turned to Alfred. "It was her, I'm sure of it."

"We've all been watching her, sir," said Alfred. "She can't have been in two places at once…"

* * *

Lieutenant Bullock yawned as he reread Bruce Wayne's statement for the fourth time. "Gotta tell ya, Wayne; you should be the one writing this movie. You got some imagination."

Bruce shrugged. "I definitely followed _someone_ in here from the roof, Lieutenant. It looked like Miss Fuller, but… I suppose I could be mistaken…"

"You 'suppose' you could be mistaken?" said Bullock. "They got her on camera in a room full of fifty people. You _are_ mistaken, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce gave the Lieutenant a blank look. "Thank you for your understanding."

"Nobody saw anyone enter before you," added Bullock. "But, with everyone distracted by the filming, I guess somebody coulda slipped in unseen."

"Did you find any, um, clues, Lieutenant?" Bruce asked, making the question seem naïve.

"Dusted the broken masonry for prints, as well as the roof access door," said Bullock. "Nothing; but that's hardly surprising, as the killer woulda worn gloves. We also took away that cloak you say 'she' was wearing. Costume department says it's one of theirs, but nobody saw it get taken. We'll have our best 'lab boys' look over it, Mr. Wayne, don't you worry."

Bruce smiled at Bullock's patronising tone and the detective wandered off to berate his fellow officers. Bruce made his way over to Julie, who was wrapped in a blanket.

"Cold?" he asked her.

"Hm?" she looked up at him and smiled brightly. "Oh, no. Someone just gave me this 'cause, y'know, I've been in an accident."

Bruce gave a small laugh. He had to go out. "Listen, Julie… I really want to continue our… discussion. But I'm afraid I just got a, uh, business call and…"

Julie waved. "It's okay, Bruce; I understand. My dad used to say: 'Time is money, and since time waits for no man, neither does money.'"

"Nice," said Bruce. "I might make that the company motto." Giving an affectionate shoulder tap, Bruce then crossed to Alfred, yet felt a sense of sorrow at having left Julie. As if he had drawn the blinds on an already dark room.

"Sir," said Alfred, "Mr. Fox just called. He needs to see you."

Bruce nodded, going into professional mode. "As soon as the cops leave, I'm heading 'downstairs' anyway. Make the usual excuses for me."

"Master Wayne… I couldn't help noticing that you and Miss Madison seem quite… familiar," said Alfred with a heavy tone.

Bruce cockily slipped back into a more casual attitude. "Alfred, if you're going to give me 'The Talk', I think you're a bit late…"

Alfred maintained his serious expression. "I'm just worried about you, sir. You're already occupied with both these murders _and_ finding Dr. Crane. Now, with something this personal… It's easy to lose focus."

"Batman isn't easily distracted, Alfred," said Bruce.

"But _you_ are, Master Wayne. You are."

* * *

"You are in for a surprise," said Lucius. Bruce had arrived at Wayne Enterprises to find Lucius in the Applied Science department, as usual, albeit somewhat more enthused than normal.

"The skin fragment?" asked Bruce. "You found something?"

"Boy, did I," said Lucius. He showed Bruce some computer monitors which displayed reams of data all meaningless to Bruce.

Lucius pointed frantically to one fact-filled screen. "First off; even the most basic scans told me that while the fragment looked and felt like skin, it was not."

Bruce shrugged. "So what is it?"

Lucius pointed importantly at another screen. "Pseudoderm."

"What?"

"A type of artificial skin developed a couple of years ago by a Doctor Bart Magan for medical purposes. His idea was that it would be used as a skin graft when no actual human tissue was available. It would cover a wound or burn, acting like normal skin until the real skin healed."

Bruce frowned as he took these facts in. "Why haven't I heard of it?"

"It was found to be infectious to open wounds over a long period, and it was scrapped."

"So what's it doing in Daggett's office?" Bruce mused. "Did the killer even leave it?"

Lucius switched to his 'now-here's-the-best-bit' speech. "That's where things get interesting," he said. "After it was abandoned by the medical profession, the government naturally became interested. The CIA had a top secret project codenamed 'Aristotle'…"

"Which, despite being top secret, you know everything about?" said Bruce.

Lucius smirked. "Please, Mr. Wayne; with our government, I just had to use Wikipedia." Bruce chuckled and Lucius continued with his briefing.

"Project Aristotle was concerned with using pseudoderm in creating realistic disguises for undercover operations."

"Disguises?" Bruce repeated. This odd new information struggled to find purchase in his head.

Lucius nodded. "It was dropped because too many things interfered with the adhesive; but they could mould masks out of the pseudoderm that looked and felt real. Shaped padding under the mask accounted for any differences in facial structure; wigs and coloured contact lenses took care of any minor aesthetic differences."

"That's how Payne could be in two places at once…" Bruce realised. "And Fuller…" Off Lucius' confused look, Bruce quickly explained the situation that had occurred at the mansion.

"The killer is disguising himself – or herself – in order to create the perfect alibi," said Bruce. "At least this means Payne and Fuller aren't suspects…"

"Aren't they?" said Lucius. "Either one of them could be working with the real killer, or they could be in it together. As you said; the pseudoderm mask would give them perfect alibis.

"Plus," added Lucius, "a disguise alone isn't worth anything, no matter how realistic it is. To fool your victims well enough to get close to them, you'd have to pull off not just the appearance of someone they know, but their voice, body language, mannerisms… It would take a _true_ master of disguise; someone talented in the art of mimicry and deception…"

"Someone like an actor…" said Bruce.

* * *

"Calm down, Mrs. Griggs," said Gordon. "I know this is hard, but we need all the information we can if we're going to recover your husband safely."

There had been a 911 call about a half hour ago: A woman claimed her husband had been abducted from their bedroom as they slept. A serious crime, but sadly a common occurrence in Gotham. What was not common was the fact that the woman claimed that her husband had been taken from his bed in the night by a man dressed like a scarecrow.

"Go on," Gordon gently encouraged the crying wife. "When you're ready."

Mrs. Griggs composed herself enough to continue. "I got woke up by th-this singing – someone was singing some lullaby or something, I don't know…" She grew heavy with emotion again.

"Who was it, Mrs. Griggs?" Gordon asked. He already knew, but needed to hear it.

"A scarecrow," she gasped. "He took my husband… Ben tried to fight back, but the… the Scarecrow sprayed this gas or something…"

"Did he say anything?" asked Gordon. "Before he left?"

Mrs. Griggs nodded, tears welling up. "He said 'Ichabod has come for Brom'… What does that mean?"

Gordon could not give her an answer. He left the room to the other detectives, knowing they'd find nothing. Crane was too meticulous. But he had given a clue of some kind, which Gordon mulled over as he stepped out into the backyard of the family home.

"Benjamin Griggs," he said aloud, knowing Batman was listening. "Thirty-two; construction worker; married with two kids."

"And a graduate of O'Neil Memorial High School," said Batman from the shadows.

"The same high school as Crane," Gordon said. He had been looking into Crane's background, but he hadn't been able to see the link with Griggs until now. "Another vendetta?"

"Crane believes these people have wronged him in some way," Batman confirmed. "But he's probably using them to 'perfect' his toxin as well."

Gordon sighed. He wanted Crane brought in, and fast. "You hear what the wife said? The message Crane gave?"

"A reference to Ichabod Crane, the main character from _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ by Washington Irving. Crane's psyche report indicates he was given 'Ichabod' as a cruel nickname in high school. Sounds like he views Griggs as 'Brom Bones', the antagonist of _Sleepy Hollow_."

"Crane's clever," said Gordon. "He's knows how to manipulate the psychiatrists at Arkham – hell, he used to be one – but they've been able to determine that he's always seen himself as the victim. He uses his intelligence to dominate and intimidate others."

"That's what the message was for," said Batman. "He's telling us that, like Ichabod, he's the one suffering because of 'Brom'."

Gordon shook his head. "Seems like more than that… Why would he care what we think?"

"Because deep down, all Crane wants is recognition and acceptance," said Batman. "This is his twisted way of getting it. He wants us to respect his genius."

"It seems like more," said Gordon contemplatively. "Like he's taunting us in some way…"

Batman was about to tell Gordon not to take the message too personally when a thought struck him. Something that had been scratching at the back of his mind since he heard Mrs. Griggs relay Crane's message.

"The Sleepy Hollow Motel!" said Batman. "Just outside city limits; to the north. You know it?"

"Uh, yeah," said Gordon, rallying his thoughts to this outburst. "It's been abandoned for years. You don't think…?"

"Get a unit over there!" shouted Batman as he ran towards the Bat-pod.

* * *

Crane, in his full Scarecrow attire, paced leisurely before Griggs' bound body in one of the disused motel's bedrooms.

"So… What have _you_ been up to since high school, Ben?" he asked. Griggs simply lay there, trying and failing to hide the terror in his eyes.

"I'm sure you never told anyone that you used to bully the infamous Doctor Jonathan Crane, psychiatrist turned psychopath," said Crane. "But I'll bet you looked exceedingly knowing whenever my name was mentioned."

Crane moved to leer over Griggs. "What? No witty comeback, Ben? Not going to call me Ichabod for old time's sake?

"I suppose you're not to blame. It's a cliché, but it's usually true: The bully is more afraid that the one he picks on. You see, Ben; you're just a victim of your fears, like everyone else."

"P-Please don't kill me," said Griggs. "I have a family…"

"Aww," taunted Crane. "And they would be so terribly afraid if they lost you, wouldn't they?"

"Yes," whispered Griggs, too scared to know if Crane's question was genuine or not.

"Good…" Crane whispered back.

Suddenly a black blur crashed through the window and kicked Crane square in the face. It was the Batman. He used the bladed fins along his gauntlet to cut the rope that bound Griggs.

"Run!" he shouted.

With Griggs escaping, Crane took advantage of the distraction to spray gas from an aerosol in his sleeve into the Batman's face.

Batman allowed this attack – knowing he was immune to Crane's toxin – in order to get Crane closer. He grabbed Crane's arm and twisted the skinny psychiatrist into submission. But something was wrong.

Batman found his limbs becoming heavier. His breathing rate was increasing and he was overwhelmed with drowsiness. The spray, he realised, wasn't Crane's usual hallucinogen. Its effects felt more like a sedative.

"Sleepy?" Crane said in a mocking voice. With the Batman weakened, he easily freed himself and stood over the Dark Knight, who had fallen to his knees, trying to stay awake. "And I thought bats were nocturnal."

Everything went dark.

* * *

When he awoke, Batman immediately chastised himself for falling into Crane's trap. He should have been more alert; he should have seen how it was too obvious, too arrogant. Alfred was right; his attention was split. Unfocused. Between hunting Crane, and solving the Clayface murders, and his feelings for Julie.

Julie…

He couldn't let himself get distracted so easily. Because of it, he was now chained to a psychiatric couch in a room full of mist. At least he could still feel his mask and utility belt on his person. Either Crane had been deterred by their inbuilt defences, or he had simply neglected to remove them. He still couldn't reach the belt – perhaps he should store lock-picks in his gloves in future – but he would find some way out of the restraints.

_"We are the hollow men… We are the stuffed men…"_ Crane's voice drifted through the mist. _"Leaning together, heads full of straw…"_ Batman couldn't see him in the fog, but that was what Crane wanted; the disembodied voice, the eerie poetry – all meant to intimidate.

_"This is the way the world ends,"_ Crane continued his macabre recital. _"Not with a bang but a whimper."_ He emerged, standing next to the couch still dressed in his scarecrow outfit.

"Crane!" Batman shouted, as if his fury alone would win out.

"Ah-ah-ah," Crane waved his finger in the negative. "Scarecrow."

"Is that a rationalization, Crane?" said Batman. He had to keep him distracted, think of a way out of the chains. "Do you feel better knowing that it's 'Scarecrow' and not Jonathan Crane committing murder?"

Crane laughed. "Very good, Batman. What daytime TV talk-show host did you borrow that pop psychology from? You've grossly simplified the concept of rationalization. You see, rationalization occurs when–"

"What have you done with Griggs?" Batman demanded. He was breaking down Crane's air of superiority; undermining him.

Crane, although his features were hidden behind his mask, seemed offended by this interruption. "I'm sure he's quite safe. Assuming you alerted your cop friends to my little motel hideaway. Pity – I did like that old place; plenty of rooms, out of the way…"

Batman realised this meant they were in a separate location. He couldn't count on a last-minute rescue.

"I like what you've done with your image by the way," said Crane. "Batman – Cop Killer! That's sure to have all the crooks running scared. You and I are quite alike, you know…"

"We are nothing alike," said Batman.

"We both rely on fear," said Crane. "We both understand it; respect it; use it like the surgical instrument it is."

"You use it as an excuse for your lethal experiments!" shouted Batman.

"Oh… But they do have a glorious purpose, Batman," said Crane. "I'm refining that little potion I got from those rather intense foreign gentlemen two years ago. You really put a downer on their plans, didn't you?"

"What are you up to this time, Crane?" asked Batman. He needed to keep Crane talking, and Crane might, in his arrogance, reveal too much.

"My compound will now seep directly into your subconscious and your imagination. Through the twisted magic of hallucination – auditory, visual _and_ tactile – you'll see your worst nightmares brought to life. Stuff you didn't even know you were scared of. And it will just get worse and worse until your heart can't take it any more and you… die of fright… So much more fitting, don't you think?"

"That's what happened to Brahms and Squires?"

"With Brahms I only got to watch him die in sheer mortal terror. I didn't know what he was seeing. So, like any scientist, I learned from my mistakes. With Shelley, I added a little lexium veritol to the mix – an experimental truth serum. She described _everything_. It was beautiful.

"That's when I knew I was ready for you," Crane bragged. "When capturing Griggs, I left a clue that I knew you couldn't resist. You're probably wondering why I left your mask on. That would be too easy for someone of my psychological expertise. The best – and only – way to really know someone is through their fears.

"Don't think you're protected by that antidote you fashioned last time," said Crane. "I've worked my way around it. You should be starting to feel the effects…"

Crane was right; Batman's vision was blurring, his hearing distorting. It was like a bad dream. He had to fight it, he couldn't let Crane win. But it pulled too strongly at him.

"What is the most feared man in Gotham afraid of?" said Crane. "You're going to tell me. You're going to tell me everything.

"Tell me, Batman… What do you see?"


	3. Captive Audience

**THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM**

Interlude

_I am Clayface. This is what they have called me and it is how I shall be remembered._

_I have taken on the persona of this cinematic villain to ensure both my anonymity and my place in legend. This may seem a paradox, but fame is an odd thing, sure enough._

_I have killed, yes, but only because the pathetic fools of this world we live in refuse to recognise true genius. True talent. Even now, none of them suspects me, for so great is my skill as an actor. History may not record my name, but through these murders it will never forget me._

_I cannot be forgotten. I have been ignored for far too long._

_Using my considerable skills in the art of mimicry and deception, aided by life-like masks, I carry out my grim tasks. But I am nearing completion. Only one more person need die by my hand before I am made eternal!_

_For this last undertaking, I have arranged for the manufacture of a new disguise – that of Bruce Wayne!_

* * *

Act III – "Captive Audience"

Bruce walked down the dark and cold alleyway that he had visited so many times in his memory. But this was real – wasn't it?

It was exactly as it had been that night: Too quiet, too still. Walking through the air seemed like walking through cobwebs. This was where his parents died. This was where he died.

"No!" Bruce shouted. "This isn't real!" He wasn't in that alley; he was bound to a couch somewhere at Crane's mercy, under the effects of his hallucinogen. If he let it take him, he might involuntarily reveal his deepest secrets to Crane before the images caused his heart to give out.

"It's very real," said Crane. Bruce could hear the Scarecrow's sharp voice drifting into his nightmare. He needed to focus on it – concentrate on the real.

"Reality is whatever your mind decides it to be," said Crane. "Let your mind take you on this dark journey, and tell me what you see…"

Bruce struggled against it, but found himself drifting back into the vision.

He saw his parents – just as they were that night – wandering down the alley. For a moment, he forgot they were a mere illusion and dropped to his knees.

"Mom… Dad…" he called out in anguish.

Crane leaned forward in his chair, appearing in the alleyway for a flickering moment. "Parental issues," he said. "I always suspected there was something in your youth… Tell me, Batman, what is it that happened to you? To them? It must have been something awful…"

Bruce wanted to run to his parents, but found himself immobile. He saw a man approach them out of the darkness. He knew what happened next all too well.

The man – more like a shadow, or a wraith – pulled a gun. _"Wallet… Jewellery…"_ it shrieked, its voice like cracking ice, its eyes red and glowing. Bruce wanted to run to them, to save them, but he could not.

His parents simply stood there, unmoving. Why? Why weren't they doing anything? Bruce wanted to yell out to them, but he could not summon his voice.

The wraith fired and the gunshot was deafening. The bodies of his parents became engulfed in flame and burned down to the bone as they screamed straight into Bruce's mind.

"NO!" Bruce yelled.

"What is it?" asked Crane hungrily. "What do you see?"

"My… My parents," Bruce found himself saying. He desperately reminded himself to concentrate on Crane's voice; the feel of the chains; the temperature in the room – anything _real_.

A mocking laugh drew him back into his madness. Suddenly the wraith formed not into the man who had killed his parents so long ago, but into the Joker.

"No! It can't be!" cried Bruce.

_"Oh, but it is,"_ said the Joker.

"This isn't real!" Bruce drew his eyes away from the skeletons of his parents. The alleyway was distorting now, becoming warped. It seemed to have no end.

_"They died and _this_ is how you remember them?"_ said the Joker. _"By dressing like a bat and beating people up? You're crazier than I am!"_

"It's about more than that!" Bruce couldn't stop himself saying. "I'm trying to honour my parents! To stop their fate – _my fate_ – from happening to anyone else!"

Bruce struggle to clutch onto the flickering image of Crane in the fog. He needed to stop himself hallucinating, or who knows what he'd tell Crane in his delirium.

"Seeking parental approval… A mother's love, a father's respect… So Freudian..." Crane muttered to himself. He leaned forward and Bruce thought he saw a pen and notepad in Crane's hands through the haze. Bruce realised he could use the pen to pick his restraints. He needed to focus on it – focus on escaping above all else.

_"All you do is get people killed!"_ taunted the Joker's visage.

"Shut up!" Bruce shouted, trying to drown out the cruel voice.

_"Why, Bruce?"_ said another voice. Bruce looked up to see his father's ghostly corpse standing over him. _"Why do you do it?"_

"Dad…" Bruce uttered. "Please… You have to understand…" He turned away. "No! This isn't real! I won't play this game!"

A ghoul of his mother now stood by his father's side, weeping. _"This is how you honour us?"_ said his 'Father'.

There was so much Bruce wanted to say, but he had to remind himself that it was all unreal. "Go away!" he shouted out.

_"How many more have to die before you're satisfied?" _said the Joker.

"Shut up!"

_"Wasn't I enough, Bruce?"_ An image of Rachel Dawes had appeared. _"Why didn't you stop after losing me?"_

"No… Not real… Not real…"

_"And what about me?"_ This one resembled Harvey Dent, half-scarred face and all. _"You just had to drag me down to your level, didn't you?"_

The walls of the alleyway were starting to grow larger and dwarf Bruce's crouched form. It got darker and colder too, but Bruce kept concentrating on the cloudy room in which he and Crane sat, lit only by a single lantern.

The ghosts of Rachel, Harvey and his parents encircled him, while the Joker paced around. Their gaze pierced Bruce's very soul and he could feel his heartbeat quickening. If he did not gain control of the situation soon, it would surely give out.

_"Who's next, Brucie?"_ said the Joker.

Suddenly the ghosts parted and Bruce looked up to see the bodies of Alfred, Gordon, Bullock, Lucius and Julie hanging from nooses.

"No!" he cried. "I'm trying to _prevent_ more deaths!"

_"Well you're not doing a very good job, are ya?"_ The Joker crouched down beside him, putting his arm around Bruce.

He needed to overcome this illusion; break it. It was fuelled by his fears, so he just had to cut off its supply.

"I'm not a failure!" he shouted defiantly, pushing the Joker back and standing to face his demons. "My parents would be proud of me! Of _who_ I am, if not _what_! And if that's not true, then so be it! It's… It's about more than just them. No matter what I tell myself."

The images of his parents vanished into nothing.

"As for those close to me who've died… I feel their deaths every day, but the truth is… a lot worse could have happened if I didn't do what I do… It's small comfort, but it's true… And I'm not afraid of their memories. To feel nothing but fear would dishonour them. I strive to make sure it doesn't happen again! Because some good _has_ to come of it! But nothing good will come of it so long as I live in fear!"

Harvey and Rachel vanished. The Joker remained.

_"Oh, you'll never get rid of me, Bruce," _the Joker taunted. _"Like I told you before: We're destined to do this forever…"_

"Maybe I am afraid of you," said Bruce. "More than any other single person. But if that's not something I can overcome, then at least it's something I can live with. Because my fear won't – will _never_ – stop me from doing what needs to be done."

_"This isn't over…"_ said the Joker as he disappeared.

Crane had been listening to this intently and was now looming over Bruce's bound and costumed body, his hand, still clutching the pen, close to Bruce's. "Who are you…?" he whispered.

Bruce looked right into Crane's grey eyes. "I'm Batman!" He simultaneously headbutted Crane as he grabbed the pen.

Crane was too distracted by his injury to notice the missing pen, which the Batman now used swiftly on his locks, keeping it out of Crane's view.

Clutching at his face through his protective mask, Crane almost seemed annoyed. "Very good, Batman," he said. "You're broken my compound's spell… For now.

"But I know what haunts you… Your parents' memory… Feelings of incompetence… Perhaps you feel like you do more evil than good?

"I can understand that. I mean; look how many new psychopaths you've attracted: The Joker, Mr. Freeze, the Mad Hatter, Clayface…

"But never forget, Batman: I was here before any of them! When we first met, I set you on fire and through you out a window! Nobody's really topped me, have they?

"This new wave of crime you've inspired; costumes, themes, gimmicks… Everyone looking for some kind of archetype to latch on to. Seeking some kind of bizarre self-actualisation or justification. But I'm so much more than that… I was the first…"

"And you'll be the last!" shouted Batman. Now free of his chains, he leapt straight for Crane's nimble form.

But the hallucinogen had left him groggy. Slow. He missed with his first punch and Crane had enough time to throw the down the lantern which had been lighting the room. It ignited with the straw covered floor and the whole room was soon up in flames.

"_Déjà vu_, Batman?" said Crane, on the other side of the fire. He quickly exited through the door, leaving Batman with the window.

Leaping through the glass onto some dirt ground outside, Batman started to feel the psychedelic effects of Crane's chemical coming round again.

_"Bruce… Bruce… Bruce…"_ Various voices called out to him. He needed to keep his head. It was dark, even with the spreading fire, and he couldn't tell where he was. He saw Crane run into some nearby tall plants.

Batman ran into the warping plants after him, even as the voices continued. Ghostly faces stared out at him from the ember-lit darkness.

_"Why, Bruce? Why?"_

He needed to drown them out; ignore them; catch Crane; get help. Stay focused. Fight past it.

Suddenly he saw Crane looming right in front of him, his arms spread wide. Not taking any chances, Batman tackled the bony Scarecrow to the ground and started pummelling him.

_"Bruce… Stop this… Why?"_

Batman was out of breath before he noticed he had been punching only straw. He had tackled an actual scarecrow. He looked up and saw he was at some kind of farm. It looked abandoned. The tall plants must have been corn or some such thing.

His head swimming from the hallucinogen, and knowing the fire would attract attention, Batman could do nothing but activate the distress beacon on his utility belt and wait for Alfred.

Then he passed out.

* * *

_"Bruce…"_

When he awoke, Bruce found himself the more familiar environment of his own bedroom, with Alfred sitting by his bedside.

"Here we are again," said Alfred. Bruce knew what he was referring to: the first time Crane had poisoned him.

Bruce shook his head as he sat up in bed and took a sip of the juice Alfred offered. "Was different this time, Alfred… More intense…"

"Yes, Lucius said as much. I called him when I got back with you last night…"

"Wait," said Bruce. "First things first; when you picked me up, did you see any signs of Crane?"

Alfred shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir. But there were indications that a van or a truck had recently left the premises. I didn't investigate further as I thought it would be prudent to remove you from the scene before the authorities arrived to deal with the burning farmhouse.

"I managed to get you back without the police surveillance team noticing…"

Bruce nodded. Lieutenant Bullock had ordered a team to watch the mansion since Bennett's murder, and if Alfred said they hadn't seen him then Bruce knew it to be true. He trusted his butler's skills and intelligence too much to doubt it.

"…whereupon I called Mr. Fox. I assumed, correctly, that you had been poisoned by Dr. Crane, as your symptoms seemed similar to the last time.

"Lucius took a sample and had it analysed – which he can have done a lot faster now that he's CEO – and confirmed that it was Crane's toxin, but yet it was not. Your prior inoculation was effective, but took longer to adapt to this new strain."

"He's modified it," added Bruce, now up-to-speed. "It's no longer poisonous. No longer lethal, at least not chemically.

"It induces powerful psychometric hallucinations based on the victim's worst fears. It induces the severity of these images until the victim's heart gives out."

"Good Lord…" cursed Alfred.

"He's a total sociopath," said Bruce, his voice steady and resolute. "Of that, I'm certain. He's got zero empathy – cares for no-one but himself; his own agenda – and has absolutely no qualms with killing to further it."

There was a deep pause before Bruce continued. "What about here? The movie?"

"No more murders, if that's what you're asking. Tensions are still high though, and Mr. Payne seems determined to ignore it and push on.

"Lucius told me about the pseudoderm mask… Do you really think someone is disguising themselves to commit murder?"

"Seems the only explanation. In a way, it makes things harder _and_ easier for us. We know it has to be someone experienced in the art of deception – like an actor – but it means we can't rely on any eyewitness reports. Nobody is who they seem…"

Alfred sighed. "Well, they could all be accused of having motive, Master Wayne. This 'Clayface' has attracted all sorts of morbid attention. There's no doubt that people will see _The Terror_ now."

"Fuller and Hagen seem the most likely to commit murder," said Bruce, almost absent-mindedly.

"What makes you say that, sir?"

"They seem the most detached. Engrossed in celebrity lifestyle. Plus, their careers would benefit the most from the publicity.

"Fuller certainly seems to have the acting talent to pull off the disguises – even to pretend to be a man – but I'm not sure about Hagen. Unless of course he's faking his poor acting skills…

"Payne and Karlo seem the most set on making this film, so it's unlikely to be them, even though, ironically, they are the best actors."

Alfred saw that Bruce's mind was racing down several internal paths but feared there was one he was blind to.

"There is also Miss Madison, sir," Alfred said.

"Julie?" Bruce seemed genuinely surprised. "What do you mean? The killer tried to get her yesterday. I was there."

"Yes, sir…" Alfred knew he could not turn back now. "But with all this talk of deception and disguises, is it not possible that attack was somehow staged?"

Bruce shook his head stubbornly. "I know what you're getting at, Alfred. Nobody takes her seriously as an actress – as a _person_ – and she'd benefit from the publicity just as much as anyone. But it's just not possible. Not Julie."

Alfred looked downward, as if ashamed to be speaking the words. "I am wondering if, perhaps, you are allowing your personal feelings to cloud your judgement, Master Wayne…"

Bruce fixed Alfred with an intense stare. "What if I am? Maybe it's better to rely on my feelings and instincts instead of cold, deductive logic all the time!"

Alfred held up a hand calmly. "I am not trying to accuse Miss Madison, sir, I am simply saying–"

"That she's a bad influence? Is that it? She affects my judgement too much? That I'd be better off without her in my life?"

With that Alfred stood and looked down at what was once a frightened little boy left in his care. "On the contrary, _sir_! The fact that she has brought even a modicum of happiness into your life fills me with more joy than you will ever know and makes me long for the days before–!" He looked away. He could not say it.

"I just… I thought that, if she is going to be taken away from you, maybe this time you could at least be prepared… You've already lost so much…" Alfred finished and slowly moved toward the door.

"Alfred…" Bruce spoke up. "I'm sorry. It's just… The way Crane took me down so easily last night… Maybe my judgement has been impaired… But if so then it's something I have to deal with. I can't just avoid… distractions. Otherwise, how can I ever have anything like a normal life…?"

Standing in the doorframe, Alfred took a deep breath. "There's something I thought I would never tell you, Master Wayne... But it seems quite relevant now…

"Before he met your mother, your father was in love with another woman…"

This took Bruce aback. While he had never thought of love as an absolute, he had always, somewhat naively, thought of his parents as the perfect, made-for-each-other couple. He stared, wide-eyed, at Alfred in surprise; his silence asking him to continue.

"She was high society, born into wealth, like him," said Alfred. "She made him smile. And your father doted on her every chance he got.

"But every so often, they'd be out at dinner, or the opera, or even having a quiet night in, and the phone would ring. It would be an emergency at the hospital.

"At first she said she understood. After three months she started making subtle hints – asking if your father wouldn't prefer a transfer to a private hospital with a better workload and more pay. And after six months she started throwing her tantrums.

"She didn't understand, you see. Your father didn't run off into the dark night because of the money. He did it because if he didn't, someone might die. It was as simple as that. To him, but not to her.

"One night, while your father was saving someone's life, she packed up her things and left. Your father was devastated. He still loved her, even though she didn't understand who he was.

"Then he met your mother. A small town schoolteacher. He made it clear to her early on that if he was called he would have to choose the hospital over her.

"And your mother understood. She didn't just tolerate it – she _understood_ it. Totally and completely."

Bruce took a moment to place this revelation before asking, "Why are you telling me this, Alfred?"

"Because, sir, men like your father – like _you_ – cannot lead normal lives. When you are called, you simply must answer. But it's not fair to string along the women in your lives unless they know – and understand – who you are and _why_ you are."

"Is this a bad time?" Julie's voice parted the solemn cloud in the air.

"I was just leaving," said Alfred quietly.

"Alfred," said Bruce, halting him. "Thank you."

Alfred simply nodded. "Sir. Ma'am."

With Alfred gone, Julie shut the door and sat on the bed. "I hear you partied a little too hard last night."

"What?" said Bruce, still deep in thought. He realised Julie was no doubt referring to Alfred's alibi for him. "Oh, yeah. But, uh, just with some friends. From work," he added, finding the need to defend his chivalry.

Julie just giggled. "You lightweight."

Bruce didn't respond and remained staring soberly at the bedroom wall.

"Something wrong?" Julie asked.

"I… had a bad dream last night."

Julie didn't laugh. She read the expression in his face. "What was it about?"

Bruce knew that Alfred's suspicion was not misplaced. That, objectively, Julie was every bit a suspect – a potential murderer – as the others. But he knew, in his heart, it was not true, and he could not hold back from her.

"I saw my parents," he said. "They… They said they were ashamed of me."

Julie took Bruce's hand in hers. "Bruce, you can't think that's true."

"I don't know… But what if the…dream was just my own subconscious feelings drifting to the surface?

"What if _I_ don't believe in…what I do? Who I have become?"

"Everyone asks themselves those questions, Bruce. Our dreams play on those doubts and fears and make them seem bigger than they are. But if you were a hundred percent sure about the decisions in your life – if you _didn't_ question them every so often – that would just make you… well, a tyrant."

Bruce looked into the young woman's eyes, full of wisdom beyond her years, the wisdom that he knew all too well came with a life of tragedy. Could he tell her about Batman? Should he?

She kissed him. For the next few moments, all his questions and nightmares were forgotten.

* * *

Jim Gordon hung his head heavily over the desk in his study at home, as if the proximity of his eyes to the paperwork would help it sink in any better. His mind was too weighted, too preoccupied, too distracted.

Ever since the fiasco with Harvey Dent, Gordon's wife Barbara had been quiet. Too quiet, considering the trauma she had been through. She and the kids had seen counsellors of course, and they had been helpful, but she was still quiet. Occasionally one of the children would wake up screaming in the night, and Barbara would take care of it, thinking Gordon didn't notice her crying herself back to sleep. And they never talked about it.

Until recently. It had all came out. When they were younger and first moved to Gotham, she had known even then it was a mistake and had said so. Gordon had persuaded her otherwise. This was where the work was. This was wear the crime was. Now, with two children to protect, a husband too committed to his work than his family, the nightmare of one kidnapping and the potential threat of more or worse, Barbara had decided to take the kids and move to her mother's in Delaware. The word "divorce" hadn't been mentioned, but Gordon knew it was only a matter of time. Unless he did something now.

But Crane was still out there.

Gordon rubbed his eyes. The small lamp somehow made things seem even darker. He needed a break. From both the work and his heavy thoughts.

Pocketing the "secret" packet of cigarettes he kept in his desk drawer that Barbara probably knew about, Gordon made his way through the den – pretending not to notice the silent tension as he passed Barbara and the kids – and out into the back yard.

As Gordon lit up, he heard Batman's voice from the fire escape above him. "Problems?"

Leaving the cigarette unlit, as if fearful of being judged by Batman, Gordon let out a sigh of relief.

"Where have you been?" he asked the Dark Knight.

"Had a run-in with Crane," said Batman. "He got away. My own fault. It won't happen next time."

"Yeah. We got to the motel, found Griggs. Oh, and your 'bike'. It's in the garage at Central..."

"Already got it back. You need a new lock."

Gordon simply shook his head and got back to talking about the motel. "Looks like Crane had been using the place since his escape. Found a lot of his toxin."

"It's no longer toxic," said Batman. "But it's a more powerful hallucinogen. And still lethal, under the right circumstances. The antidote from last time is still effective, but it takes longer to act."

Gordon didn't even bother asking how Batman knew this. "What's our next move?" he did ask.

"Crane seemed to be trying to get my attention. It's possible that's all he wanted…"

Gordon sensed his tone. "You know that's not it. We're never that lucky."

"He thinks he's perfected his drug. The next logical step would be to use it en masse."

"Jesus." Gordon rubbed his temple. He had been dreading that outcome. But based on everything he knew of Crane, it fit too perfectly. "He can't have much left; we got nearly all of it from the motel." It was more a statement of hollow comfort than of impossibility.

"We need to keep working," said Batman. "In the meantime, give this to Bullock." He threw down a dossier.

"What's this?"

"Information on a substance called pseudoderm. For the Clayface case."

"Pseudoderm?" Gordon picked up the files.

"Might want to read over it yourself. But, Jim… don't let this consume you. I exist because there are some sacrifices you _can't_ make. That includes family." Batman reached into the sky and was whisked away, one of the rare occasions he allowed Gordon to see him leave.

Gordon flicked briefly through the documents then shook his head. Batman was right. He needed to reconcile with his wife, spend time with his children, rebuild his family.

He walked back into the kitchen and saw that the lights were out in the den. Had Barbara taken the kids to bed? Then Gordon heard a faint singing.

_"Three blind mice. Three blind mice. See how they run. See how they run."_

It was his daughter. Something wasn't right. His jacket was resting on a kitchen chair and Gordon now removed his sidearm from it, making his way slowly into the family room. His blood chilled when he saw what lay inside.

His wife, son and daughter, their hands bound, their eyes blindfolded and their mouths gagged. Except for his daughter who continued to sing. Stood over them was the Scarecrow, clutching a large blade in his bony hand.

_"They all ran after the farmer's wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife…"_

_"Did you ever see such a sight in your life,"_ finished the Scarecrow, _"as three… blind… mice?_

"Hello, Jim."

"Crane!" said Gordon, trying to hide his terror. He levelled his gun at the monster. "Step outside, right now!"

"I don't think so, Jim," said Crane. He held the knife too close to Gordon's daughter as his wife and son sobbed. "Keep singing, little girl. Like I told you." His daughter began repeating the nursery rhyme.

"I'm warning you, Crane!" Gordon shouted. "This is too far! This is my _family!"_

"And you're their brave protector," mocked Crane. "I wonder how brave you'd be without that gun?"

Gordon pulled back the hammer. "Last chance!"

"There are two basic types of fear, Jim," said Crane, seemingly oblivious to the threats. "And what you're about to experience is the slow kind that creeps up on you so unexpectedly and seeps into your every pore…"

As he spoke, Crane lifted up his free hand slowly, revealing an ammo clip. Gordon checked his gun. It was his. There wasn't even a round in the chamber. Crane had emptied it and left it there to further torment him, to prey on his fear. Gordon lowered the weapon to his side in defeat.

"It's so much more delicate than the other, more blunt kind," said Crane. "So much more tantalizing and vibrant. Like foreplay…" He stroked Gordon's daughter's cheek with a rough, gloved finger. In her blindness, she flinched and missed a beat in the rhyme.

Gordon fixed Crane with a stare that could have cut through Batman himself. "You will step away from her and you will step away from her _now_, Crane, or I'll show you how 'brave' I am without a gun!"

Crane chuckled. "Relax, Jim. I'm just visiting, this isn't business. I need to know where your friends at the police department are keeping my lovely new elixir. It would make my job a lot easier."

"I don't know, I swear to God," said Gordon now in desperation as he watched the light glint off Crane's blade in the darkness. "Some hazmat guys had to take it away; we're not allowed to store that stuff at Central!"

"Are you insulting my intelligence, Commissioner?" asked Crane, his eyes staring seriously out at Gordon through his mask.

"I'm telling the truth!"

"I _know_ that!" Gordon's daughter stopped singing at this outburst. Crane stroked her hair. "Go on, sweetheart." She continued. Crane turned back to Gordon. "But you must know where they took it. It's evidence after all."

"I am _not_ discussing this with you here, Crane!" said Gordon. "You've done enough – too much!"

"I haven't even begun!" shouted Crane, standing his lanky frame upright. "I've got one more errand to run. I've got to introduce myself to a… 'fellow scholar', you might say, then I'm turning Gotham into what it's always been – a city of fear!

"And I don't have enough of my compound left, you see. That's. Where. You. Come. In."

Gordon took his chance. Crane, now standing, was no longer holding his knife close to Gordon's daughter. Recalling his long-past high school football days, he charged the lanky Scarecrow, forcefully shouldering him through the front window, glass flying everywhere in a blur of motion.

Gordon immediately looked out the window, only to find the street empty. He hoped and prayed silently that Jonathan Crane would never darken his doorway again.

Untying his family, he then embraced all three in a group hug on the floor, all of them weeping.

"We can't… We can't live like this, Jim," said Barbara through her tears. "The children… The children…"

Gordon knew there would be no talking her out of moving now. "I know," he said through his own tears. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a cruel thought occurred: Crane had made his worst fear come true. "I know…"

* * *

Sondra Fuller took slow and heavy steps through the master bedroom of Wayne Manor. It was immaculate and pristine, as if untouched and new, yet there was something old and sacred about it. A portrait of Bruce Wayne's dead parents hung on the wall.

"They look happy there, huh?"

Fuller turned at the voice. It was Matt Hagen, leaning on the doorframe with that familiar smug grin.

"Shame what happened to 'em," he said.

"Yeah, I guess," Fuller replied. "Not that Wayne seems too affected. Spending his dead daddy's cash all over the place."

Hagen chuckled and stepped into the room more. "So what brings you to such a cold room on such a cold night?"

"I dunno…"

Truthfully there had been a lot on her mind. A lot she didn't feel like discussing with anyone, least of all Hagen. But lately she had been realising that she didn't really have many people to talk to about such things. She tended to keep people from getting close to her. Maybe it was time to change that.

"I guess I was just thinking about Ethan," she confessed. "He… died right out there in the hallway. I never really… thought about it, y'know?"

Hagen shrugged, like they were talking about the weather. "We're just caught up in the work. These things happen."

"It's murder, Matt. Doesn't that…" She searched for the words, but there were none to describe her feelings. Her dread. Her horror. Her fear.

"What's the matter, Sondra? Getting chills?" Hagen closed and locked the door behind him.

"Matt? What are you doing?"

"C'mon," he said, his gaze predatory. "It's a dark and stormy night, we're all along in the big, spooky bedroom, it'll be hours before our next scene…"

"So what, Matt, Julie starts pawing at Wayne so you'll settle for me? Is that it?" Fuller shook her head and moved for the door. "God, you're pathetic."

Hagen fiercely grabbed her arm. "Actually, I don't see why I can't have the both of you."

Fuller struggled against his tight grip. "Matt, let go of me! What the hell–?" She gasped as she felt a sharp, sudden pain in her stomach. Looking down, she saw Hagen clutching a small knife, like a scalpel, covered in her blood. As he finally released her, she collapsed onto the floor, looking up at Hagen's devilish grin.

Hagen chuckled as Fuller choked and coughed, desperately trying to hold on to life. "Y'know," he said, cleaning the blade with a handkerchief, "I _was_ just gonna kill Julie tonight. With the help of this." He pulled a mask out of his jacket pocket. It was of Bruce Wayne. "But there's just something about you, Sondra. Your pretty face…" He knelt beside her twitching form. "You shouldn't have underestimated me, Sondra. I've been ignored for far too long..."

Alfred and Basil strolled along the corridor, idly discussing the finer things in life, when they came upon Preston and Julie standing outside the master bedroom.

"Hey, Alfred," Preston said. "You got a key to this room?"

"Oh, I'm afraid you can't film in there, Mr. Payne," said Alfred. "That's Master Wayne's late parents' bedroom." Then Alfred frowned. "But it's not usually locked..."

"Well, uh, that's the thing," said Preston in a somewhat embarassed tone. "We kinda _need_ Sondra for a night scene that I wanna get done while this weather holds and uh..."

"I saw her go in there," said Julie. "With Matt."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Those youthful follies again," he said to Basil, who chuckled. Alfred dug into his pocket and produced the master key. "Sorry about this, boys and girls," he called into the room as he unlocked the door, "but you can't– Good Lord!"

The door, now open wide, revealed a morbid sight. Sondra lay in a pool of her own blood as Hagen knelt over her, cutting at her face. Barely alive, she reached out to them weakly, but before anyone could act, Hagen bolted past them in their shock.

"Stop him!" shouted Alfred as he tended to Sondra's wounds. Unseen, he activated a small device in his pocket.

Preston immediately ran to the balcony overlooking the main hall, but saw nothing. Hagen had already ran outside. Making for the door himself, Payne intended to alert the police surveillance team, but upon exiting the mansion he found Hagen already lying on the ground face-down. The Batman was restraining him.

"Over here!" the Dark Knight called to the approaching officers. "I've got him! Matt Hagen is Clayface!"


	4. Stagefright

**THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM**

Act IV – "Stagefright"

"I didn't kill anyone! I'm not Clayface!" Matt Hagen, sat across from Lt. Bullock in the dingy police interrogation room, protested.

Bullock leaned back in his chair, his arms folded and his hat pushed back on his head. The very picture of scepticism. "I saw that flick you were in a coupla years back, Hagen. What was it…? _The Short Christmas_."

Hagen, who had been claiming innocence with passionate hysteria since being brought in an hour ago, shook his head in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything!?"

"You played a cop in it."

"So!?"

"So, you must be familiar with such terms as 'eyewitnesses' and 'caught red-handed'."

"I didn't–! Look, I was outside, having a smoke, when suddenly that psycho Batman jumps on me and everyone's screaming at me… Jesus, I thought he was gonna kill me… The Bat, I mean."

Bullock sharply banged his hand into the rough metal table, jolting Hagen back into alertness. "We got four witnesses who put you at the scene of the crime! Kneeling over the victim! Cutting her up like some sick freak!"

"I… That wasn't–"

"Sondra Fuller's been taken to hospital; they reckon she may pull through. You better hope she does, 'cause _three_ murders; that's lethal injection for sure, Hagen. Curtains. Fade to black. Your final performance."

Hagen rubbed his forehead. He was sweating, panicked.

Bullock leaned forward and spoke softer. "You cooperate with us – confess – tell us where you got this pseudoderm, maybe things'll go easier for you. Can't hurt to try."

"Pseudo-what? I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant."

Bullock banged his fist down again. "D'you see anybody selling tickets at the door when you came in, Hagen? Stop this bullshit act with me before I give you my five-finger review!" He brandished his fist threateningly.

"I… I want to talk to my lawyer…"

Bullock leaned back in his chair once more and nodded. "Oh yeah… Just like in the movies…"

Behind two-way glass, Commissioner Gordon watched with Batman in the shadows.

Batman had been returning to the mansion when he had received a signal from Alfred, alerting him that Hagen was the killer. He had made straight for the front door, only to find Hagen standing outside, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. He had expected Hagen to gloat, like most sadistic murderers, but he was surprisingly intent on maintaining his innocence.

"I heard about Crane, Jim," said Batman. "I'm sorry I wasn't there–"

Gordon waved his hand dismissively. "It's okay. You can't be everywhere." He looked through a folder in his hand, trying to make it seem casual.

Previously, Batman might have left the matter there, but now he felt a need to reach out to Gordon, who had already given him so much.

"How are your family?" he asked.

Gordon sighed. Without looking at Batman he said, "Bad. Things were bad before Crane, even before Dent, but now… Barbara's taking the kids to Delaware. To her mother's…"

"I'm…sorry, Jim."

"Not your fault… It's this city… Barbara's always understood why I do what I do, but there's only so much she can take in all this madness…"

This brought to Batman's mind Alfred's words about his mother and father. "So long as she understands _who_ you are and _why_ you are, there's still hope," he said.

At that, Gordon turned and smiled at the Batman, oddly calmed by this unique show of near-emotion from Gotham's protector. He went back to the file.

Bruce thought about how this wisdom applied to his own relationship with Julie. He knew he would have to tell her about Batman at some point. He could not maintain a dishonest relationship with her, and now that Hagen was in police custody, she was safe again. The dilemma no longer presented itself; she meant too much to him for her not to know. As soon as this Clayface matter was put to rest, he would tell her. He would tell her everything.

"Just when I thought I'd seen it all," said Gordon, reading the file. "Freeze guns, fear gas, mind control…now these disguises. All seems unreal."

"Hagen's acting talent is clearly far more superior than he led us to believe," said Batman. "He successfully impersonated Payne and Fuller and was planning on Bruce Wayne next."

"I just wonder why he tried to kill Fuller _without_ a disguise," said Gordon. "Seems sloppy. But maybe he was just getting overconfident."

Batman watched as Hagen sank his head into his hands at another one of Bullock's tirades. Gordon lit up a cigarette. Something about it, and Gordon's words, attracted Batman's attention; tugging at the corners of his mind.

"Barbara would kill me for this," Gordon said ashamedly, "but I suppose with her gone for the time being, I'm allowed just one guilty pleasure…"

Suddenly various stray thoughts of Batman's were alarmingly focused: Hagen's lack of disguise when he attacked Fuller; his easy takedown outside the mansion; Gordon's cigarette; the pseudoderm…

"Jim!" shouted Batman. "The file!"

Gordon, somewhat taken aback, handed over the documents. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Batman frantically leafed through the papers, looking for something in particular. "Pseudoderm was researched by the CIA for use in undercover missions," he stated, reading through the papers. "But they abandoned it when they found that too many things caused the adhesive to wear off…"

"Yeah," said Gordon, "I read that too. So?"

Batman found the document he wanted and held it before Gordon. It was a chemical report on the pseudoderm adhesive.

"Nicotine causes an imbalance in the epidermis that interferes with the adhesive! Hagen is a smoker; he can't be the killer!"

Gordon stared at the report in disbelief. "But, the witnesses–"

"Classic misdirection," said Batman. "The man they seen attacking Fuller _wasn't_ Hagen, but was disguised as him. He led them downstairs, where the real Hagen was already outside, and hid while everyone's attention was focused elsewhere!"

"Then, that means the killer's still at Wayne Manor!" said Gordon.

"Get your men over there, _now_!" shouted Batman, preparing to leave via ventilation duct.

"But wait!" said Gordon. "Who _is_ the killer?"

"There is only one person it could be…"

* * *

In Wayne Manor's study, Alfred, Preston, Julie and Basil sat around the fireplace, still shaken by recent events.

"I… I still can't believe it was Matt," said Preston. "I mean, he was never a nice guy, but still…"

"He killed Mr. Daggett and Ethan…" said Julie, huddled up on the sofa. "Tried to kill Sondra and me and Bruce… Where is Bruce anyway, Alfred?"

Alfred draped a comforting arm around her. "I'm sure he'll be back soon, Miss Madison. And as for Mr. Hagen, let us just be glad he is finally caught. Eh, Basil?" He looked to his friend, standing at the fireplace, for words of comfort.

Basil slowly turned to face the others. "I wouldn't start taking your final bows just yet, Alfred." He held a gun in his hand, trained on the three unsuspecting people on the couch.

"Basil? What is this?" asked Alfred.

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm not Basil." He reached up to his face and tugged at the artificial skin, pulling off a pseudoderm mask and grey-haired wig. Underneath was a young man in his late twenties with long dark hair tied back.

"My God…" gasped Alfred.

"You're the killer?" said Preston. "You're Clayface?"

"But… Who are you?" asked Julie.

Their captor seemed aggravated at this. "Who am I?!" he shouted in outrage. "I'm the one who made sure you were on set on time! The one who brought you your drinks! Your props! The one who took care of your every, insignificant, little errand that you couldn't be bothered to do yourselves!"

Preston had to think for a moment. "Burt? Burt Weston?"

"Yes!" he shouted.

"_You're_ Clayface?" asked Preston in even more disbelief.

"Of course not!" shouted another voice at the door. All heads turned to see the real Basil Karlo, dressed in a sharp tuxedo that Alfred recognised as one of Bruce's. He strolled easily across the room without the aid of his familiar cane.

"_I_ am Clayface!" Karlo proclaimed, taking the gun from Weston.

Weston started applauding. "And wasn't he great? His best performance yet!"

"Oh shut up, you fool," said Karlo, shooting Weston in the gut. He crumpled to the floor as the others jumped in fright. "Your use is at an end…"

"Basil…?" said Alfred.

Karlo grinned, his former charm and frailty gone, there was only malice and arrogance now. "Well, Preston my boy, you did say this room would be perfect for the 'big reveal'…

"Yes, I am Clayface. The original and the one and only! That role made me who I am, without it I would be nothing.

"So when I heard of a remake, I was devastated." Karlo, gun in hand, began pacing before his audience. "Already living in seclusion, I was convinced I would fade away, remembered only for Clayface. And I was happy with that, for I loved the role so dearly. But a remake! It would shatter everything. To quote the Bard: _I have lost my reputation. I have lost the immortal part of myself and what remains... is bestial..._

"Knowing my resentment would not deter its production, I played along, acting the frail and feeble old fool in your shameless game!" He waved the gun at the others.

Karlo leered at Weston's bleeding body. "Young Burt had already corresponded with me some months before; another fan of mine. His loyalty to me and to the original film was so much that together we hatched a plan to destroy this inconceivable mockery!

"Weston, an aspiring special effects artist, had acquired a substance called pseudoderm via underground connections. It could be used to craft realistic disguises which, when combined with my superior acting talent, could fool anybody!

"First I visited that corpulent oaf Daggett whilst disguised as you, Preston, knowing that since you were on live television at the time, it would suitably confused the police.

"I had thought I might dissuade Daggett from ruining my legacy, but when it became clear he was just as corrupt as the rest of you, he had to go.

"Then there was Bennett. I snuck away during our first meeting here and once again used your visage, Preston, to simulate an argument while you took a walk outdoors. Given you and Ethan's disagreements, it once again implicated you, while casting enigma over the entire situation.

"I then attempted to do you in, Julie, whilst disguised as Sondra, but that idiot Wayne got in the way. When I saw the closeness between you two though, I could not resist using his image to get closer to you…"

Julie winced at the thought.

"While I was procuring some of Wayne's clothing to aid my disguise, I chanced upon Sondra herself. Quickly applying a spare mask of Hagen, I decided to take her into the bargain." He grinned cruelly again. "It has been a long time… But I misread her feelings for Hagen. I had to kill her before she sounded alarm, but little I knew how well it would work out. Weston was already disguised as me for cover, and when I was discovered by the rest of you I fled downstairs and hid in a cloakroom, knowing Hagen was outside and a prime target for his confused captors.

"With Hagen implicated as Clayface, I can kill the rest of you – ensuring that I will never be replaced or forgotten – and make it look like it was Hagen's 'accomplice', Weston. Of course, the poor, feeble old man somehow managed to turn the killer's weapon against him in a struggle. Then I will be the only Clayface. The best stories end in tragedy, don't they, Alfred?"

Alfred stared at his friend's face, searching for a remnant of the man he knew and found none. "Good Lord," he gasped. "You're insane."

Karlo sneered. "Genius is often unrecognised in its time. But I expected you, of all people, Alfred, to understand."

"I cannot understand murder, sir," said Alfred. "Not for any reason!"

"But I can," said yet another voice.

Turning towards its source, Alfred gasped in horror. It was the Scarecrow.

Karlo seemed alarmed by this intrusion. "What…? Who are you?" he demanded with his pistol.

The Scarecrow eerily slinked into the room, his hands spread wide in a mockery of innocence. "Doctor Jonathan Crane, Mr. Karlo, and I am Providence. You may be unfamiliar with my exploits, but I am more than aware of yours."

"Basil, this man is a criminal!" said Alfred, hoping enough sense was left in Karlo. "A sadistic murderer! You can't trust him!"

"He cannot understand your greatness, nor mine," said Crane. "Men like us will never be understood in our time."

Karlo seemed seduced by Crane's words. "You…know of my greatness?"

Crane held his hand outstretched, his fingers twitching. "Your performance, your ability, is pure fear, pure _terror_! You make it dance before the screen like no other. It is your craft!"

"Yes…" said Karlo. "Yes! Finally someone who understands!"

"I've always admired your skill, Mr. Karlo," said Crane. "And when I heard about these murders I knew it had to be you. Only you would have the skill, the understanding of fear; making everyone terrified by their own lack of understanding – pure genius!

"I had been refining a little trick of my own before I came here with the intention of proposing a partnership."

"Partnership?" said Karlo, clearly intrigued.

"Don't, Basil!" Alfred tried once again.

"Silence!" boomed Karlo. To Crane he urged, "Go on."

"I need an ally. Someone as intelligent and skilled as myself, unburdened by the fear of morality like so many pathetic fools. With your talent and my hallucinogen, plus our combined knowledge and understanding of terror, we could destroy every last ignorant cretin in this diseased city! Let their own fears – their own ignorance – tear them apart!"

Karlo seemed uneasy. "The whole city… I… I just wanted them to recognise me…"

"And they shall!" Knowing he had Karlo in his grasp, the Scarecrow stepped to his side, no longer wary of the gun. "The whole city has been ignorant of your genius – and mine – for too long! We could do so much together. On its own, my compound is deadly enough, but in your hands it could be a masterpiece! Gotham will lie desolate and they will _never_ forget us!"

Karlo looked up with menace in his eyes and Alfred knew he was gone now.

"Yes…" Karlo hissed.

Crane's rag-covered head turned to face the others on the couch. "But first _they_ will have to be dealt with."

Karlo seemed flustered. "Oh… Of course, yes… It's just a pity that it will be so… unromantic. Unlike the others."

"Desperate times, Basil," said Crane, with no emotion whatsoever.

Crane grabbed Julie from the couch and dragged her onto her feet.

"No!" she screamed. "Let me go!"

"You can't!" shouted Alfred. "She's all he's got!"

Alfred leapt to his feet and attempted to intercede, but Karlo struck him unconscious with the butt of the gun.

"I am sorry, Alfred," said Karlo, with genuine woe. "But I cannot be forgotten…"

"Yes!" said Crane. He passed Julie's struggling form into Karlo's hands. "Here," he said, producing a scalpel. "You should use this. Much more fitting."

Karlo traded weapons with Crane, who kept the gun trained on Preston.

Tears now streamed down Julie's cheeks. "Basil, please, don't do this... I don't want to die..."

Karlo pressed the scalpel to Julie's throat, his arm snaked around her midsection, and whispered into her ear, "Shhhh..."

"Basil, no!" Preston yelled.

"Shut up!" shouted Crane.

"This isn't you," Julie said through the tears. "Basil Karlo isn't a murderer."

"Basil Karlo was a lie!" shouted Karlo. His eyes were wild and manic now, staring without pity or remorse into Julie's innocent and pleading gaze. "I am Clayface!"

"You don't need to do this, Basil," said Julie. "You don't need to become a monster to be remembered."

"Don't listen to her!" shouted Crane. "She fears you because she does not – _cannot_ – understand you! The oldest and strongest fear is fear of the unknown! Use that fear against her! Against them all!"

"She's right!" said Preston, despite the continued threat of the gun. "The man that inspired me to get into movies;_ that's_ who Basil Karlo is! _That's_ how he should be remembered! As an actor; an artist; a creator; an _inspiration!_ Not this!"

"We... We were never trying to replace you, Basil," said Julie, trying to keep her voice steady. "We were trying to honour you. We want you to be remembered too..."

Crane held the gun menacingly closer to Preston. "But one day you'll still be forgotten," said Crane. "If you join me, you will be remembered _forever!_"

Karlo's eyes flashed desperately from Julie to Crane to Preston. Back and forth, between all three, back and forth, all his options dancing widly in his head, all struggling for dominance, before finally he settled on the one person who was telling him what he wanted to hear. Crane.

"I… I cannot be forgotten…"

"Yes!" shouted Crane. "Become fear! Become terror! Become CLAYFACE!"

Preston and Julie both screamed as Karlo plunged the blade into her throat, ending her life in a single line of crimson blood.

Preston held his head in his hands, tears running between his fingers, as Julie's body fell to the floor at Karlo's feet, next to Alfred's unconscious form.

"You cannot hide and cower from your fears, Basil," said Crane, almost as consolation. "You must meet them head on. Master them so that they do not master you."

Crane pulled Preston to his feet. "This one next; he talks too much."

Karlo was still staring down at Julie's body. "I… I must… I…"

"Basil!" Crane attempted to shock him back to reality.

"I… am… Clayface…" said Karlo in a monotone. He knelt by Julie's body. "I must take her face…"

"There's no time, Basil!" said Crane. "I took care of the police outside, but there's no telling how long we've got!"

Karlo rose and took Preston from Crane. "Yes…" he said. "Must finish…"

Preston remained tearfully silent as Karlo restrained him with surprising force; the blade pressed against his neck. He knew Karlo was too far gone for sense now.

Suddenly the lights in the room went out and they were plunged into darkness, save for the flickering fireplace.

"What is this!?" said Karlo. "Police?"

"No," said Crane, looking up. "Him."

A black shape descended from the darkness and kicked the gun out from Crane's nimble fingers. It was the Batman.

In the ensuing confusion, Karlo pulled Preston through the glass doors leading to outside the mansion.

Batman meanwhile faced Crane. "Come for another dose?" said Crane. He had been saving his compound due to its scarcity, but he unleashed a blast of the gas from his wrist-mounted aerosol.

Batman inhaled the cloud deeply. Then he punched Crane straight in the ribs.

Doubled over, Crane wheezed, "But how?"

Batman struck Crane in the side of his head, sending him to the ground. Standing over the fallen Scarecrow he said, "Your compound focuses on fear, Crane. I have none! Not anymore!"

Broken and injured, Crane managed to chuckle. "Oh, but you will. I know all your secrets, 'Batman'. I'll figure out who you are, then you won't be able to cower in the shadows anymore…"

Batman grabbed Crane's collar and hauled him to his feet and face-to-face. "I know your secrets too, Crane! Your fears! You're afraid that without these tricks," he ripped off Crane's wrist-aerosol, "and gimmicks," he pulled off Crane's mask, "people will see you for what you really are – a skinny little boy, so afraid of being bullied and picked-on that he got smart…"

Batman dropped Crane and he fell onto his knees. He had lost his smug grin. Batman kicked him in the stomach, hard.

"But that wasn't enough, was it, Crane!? You had to prove to everyone how smart you are, didn't you? You had to make them suffer! You are so pathetic and petty that you can't stand anyone who is actually content or happy!"

Crane, doubled over in pain, started to crawl towards the main door. "No! No, I made them see their fears…" he protested weakly.

"_Your_ fears have defined your whole life, Crane!" shouted Batman. "You've build up this… _persona_," he waved the Scarecrow mask, "so much that without it _you are nothing!_ That's what you're really afraid of."

Crane, gasping and grunting pitifully, was nearing the door and Batman was about to secure him, when he heard Alfred.

"Leave him!" His butler had regained consciousness and was clutching his head with one hand and pointing towards the exterior doors with the other. "Karlo took Payne outside! You have to stop him!"

Batman turned back to the main door, but Crane had already gone. Alfred was right – he could wait. But in making for the other exit, he was stopped dead in his tracks by a devastating sight.

Julie's body.

The Dark Knight knelt by her lifeless form, his cape pooling around him like a shadow.

Alfred put an hand on his master's shoulder. There was too much to say. This was not the time.

"Sir," he said simply, "you are needed."

Batman stood, his face a mask of anger and fury. Alfred had never before seen it. He feared it.

Just before Batman left the study, Alfred called to him. "Sir… Do not forget who you are and _why_ you are."

Batman stopped at the door a moment before looking back at Alfred, once again himself. Then he gave chase.

* * *

_"As black as hell, as dark as night!"_

Karlo dragged Preston down the dark hillside, confused and aimlessly rambling. They came to a steep drop onto a river below.

Batman glided through the air towards them, his cape returning to a flexible state after he landed. He knew the cliff overlooked the river that led to the Batcave's concealed waterfall entrance. He also knew it was a lethal height.

"Karlo!" he shouted to get the murderer's attention. He was too close to the edge, both physically and mentally. Batman could not allow another to die – not even Julie's killer.

Julie…

He put his emotions aside. This was no time was grief or guilt, nor rage or hate. This was a time for justice to be done.

"Let Payne go, Karlo!" Batman shouted.

"There is no Karlo! There is only Clayface now!" Karlo proclaimed as he stepped perilously close to the cliff edge.

Then Batman noticed Karlo's attire – he was wearing one of his own tuxedos, but that wasn't what alerted him. It was the cufflinks. Karlo was wearing the cufflinks that Lucius had designed, with the miniature flash-grenades in them. He was too far away to activate their audio sensor, but maybe Preston…

"Payne," said Batman, his voice firm and even, conveying great importance. "Listen to me. If you want to survive this, close your eyes and click your fingers."

Preston gave him an understandably confused and panicked look.

"What is this trickery!?" cried Karlo.

Batman had no time to convince Preston. "_Now_, Payne!"

"Enough!" shouted Karlo. "I will not be forgotten!"

As his scalpel dug into Preston's neck, the young film director took his chances and clicked.

Batman also closed his eyes as a blinding flash illuminated the night-time hillside for a second. Karlo, in his blind alarm, released Preston and staggered backwards.

"NO!" shouted Batman as Karlo lost his footing and tumbled over the edge. Batman threw himself forward but could not catch him in time. He only just managed to see ripples in the black water below before even they dispersed into calm nothing.

* * *

At the other side of Wayne Manor, Jonathan Crane was running for his freedom, muttering and mumbling to himself, lost in the darkness.

"Bat… Man… Batman! Secrets… Fears… Batman! Scarecrow… Batman!"

He ran straight into the fist of Commissioner James W. Gordon.

"Nice hit, Commish," said Bullock, aiming his pistol at Crane's dazed form. Four other uniformed officers also covered him, having arrived in the Batman's wake. "Talk about a chance encounter."

"Jonathan Crane," said Gordon, pulling out his handcuffs. "You are under arrest." He restrained Crane's bony wrists behind his back. Then, whispering in his ear, "And it's gonna stick this time, you son of a bitch."

He handed the delirious Scarecrow over to Bullock. "Lieutenant, take care of him. The rest of you, come with me." Gordon and the other officers headed for the mansion.

"Right this way, Doctor," said Bullock, roughly collaring Crane. "Follow the Yellow Brick Road."

* * *

The great stone memorial rose out of the twisted brown grass and stood, grim and silent in the cemetery, marking the resting place of his parents with solemnity and solitude.

Bruce stood over it, his eyes concealed behind designer sunglasses, and felt guilt bite through him like the chilling wind. Although he rarely visited this place, the grave seemed always to be following him.

"I failed again," he said aloud to the monument. "Another person I care for… Julie… is lying in a grave like this one, far too early…

"It wasn't my fault this time… But that's no consolation." He choked back tears on his next words. "Is everyone I feel for doomed to die? Because of some… maniac I couldn't stop in time?"

He took a deep breath. "I know I don't come out here a lot… Maybe I should. But I've been wondering lately…" He paused and briefly considered not asking. "Would you be proud of me?"

"I think they would have, Master Wayne." Alfred, who had been waiting with the car, now stood alongside Bruce. "But what you must ask yourself is this: Would it matter if they weren't?"

His only answer was the wind.

"You are your own man, Master Wayne. You cannot let your fear control you."

Bruce nodded sombrely. But there was more.

"He tricked us all," said Alfred. "With those… blasted disguises and his theatrics… If I hadn't been so bloody star-struck, like a child, I might have…" His anger diffused and the words trailed off.

"It was the smoking that gave him away," said Bruce plainly. "I remembered you said that he mentioned having recently quit smoking. I should have realised there and then. We were both... distracted." He let the wind speak again. "The police never found a body. He might still be out there, somewhere."

"Let us hope we never see him again." Alfred frowned. "He was a great man once..."

"Even the greatest can fall from great heights," said Bruce.

"Does that include you, sir? Doctor Crane may be able to deduce your true identity with what he knows."

"No... He thinks he knows me, but he only knows what I... what I used to fear. And, unlike him, I am not my fears."

They both stood in silence a moment, reflecting. "I feel like… there should be more," said Bruce. "That Julie's death should be… bigger… Should have more of an impact… It still hurts, but all I want to do is get back out there."

Alfred smiled thinly. "When I was an actor myself, we always used to say that the best parts were the tragic ones. Not because of the tragedy itself, but rather how the character _overcame_ it.

"It is not the tragedy in our lives that defines us, Master Wayne. It's what we do next."

Bruce returned his old friend's smile. The two men stood by the graveside, paying respect to those who would never be forgotten, and let the wind blow through them.

* * *

Epilogue

He remembered falling through the darkness and into the cold water. He remembered a great black bat. He remembered the freezing water enveloping him, carrying his elderly body like driftwood through turmoil until the blackness surrounding him seeped into his mind.

But now Basil Karlo awoke into a bright haze.

Lying down. He was lying down. There were machines beeping next to him and dull metal everywhere. A hospital room, perhaps?

Memories started to creep back: the Batman, the Scarecrow, Wayne Manor, the cliff. But where was he now? He struggled to raise himself.

"Careful, Mr. Karlo," said a voice in the haze. "We wouldn't want you to… 'break a leg', as you actors say."

Karlo squinted, his vision still blurry, and he made out an obscure figure in the shadows.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Where am I?"

"You are quite safe in this facility. Recuperating," the figure spoke in a hushed tone. "You were in quite a terrible condition when we pulled you out of the water, but you shall pull through. I'll make certain of that."

"What do you want with me?" gasped Karlo, his voice fading.

"We share a common enemy," said the figure. "Batman. He was the only thing that stopped you achieving your goal."

The blurry figure moved closer to Karlo's bed, but he was starting to lose his grip on consciousness.

"Join with me, Mr. Karlo, and I can help you. I'm putting together a little… 'club' for people like us… Together we can take down the Batman and ensure that you are never forgotten…"

The figure leaned over him. "What do you say to a sequel, Basil?"

Before blacking out again, Karlo grinned. "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…"

**FINIS…?**

* * *

_"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They each have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts…"_

–_William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act II Scene 7_


End file.
